I'illlll'iliiii'iinilliiii'l 


iii 


LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


PRESENTED  BY 

STUART  ATKINS 


THE   ROMANCES   OF 

ALEXANDRE    DUMAS 
E)antip  Eibrarp  enitton 


The  Marie  Antoinette  Romances 


M.  DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL 

AND  STORIES  OF  THE  FRENCH 
REVOLUTION 


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THE- ROMANCES  OF 
ALEXANDRE  DUM/VS 

CHAUVELIN'S  WILL 

A  Romance  of  the  Last  Days 
of  LfOuis  XV. 

AND 

STORIES   OF  THE 
FRENCH     REVOLUTION 

The  Woman  with  the  Velvet 

Necklace  and  Blanche 

de  Beaulieu 


BOSTON 


LITTLE  •  BROWN 

AND  •  COMPANY/^ 


Copyright,  1897, 
Bt  Little,  Bkown,  and  Compant. 


Knftjtrsttg  T^xrss : 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge,  U.  S.  A. 


Ui>flVERSlTY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SAxNTA  BARBARA 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 


MONSIEUR  DE  CHAUVELIN'S  WILL. 

In  "Monsieur  de  Chauvelin's  Will"  we  are  intro- 
duced to  several  of  the  historical  characters  who 
play  parts  of  some  prominence  in  the  first  of  the 
so-called  Marie-Antoinette  Eomances,  the  "  Memoirs 
of  a  Physician,"  and  to  one  —  the  Due  de  Kichelieu 
—  who  had  been  a  leading  figure  at  court  and  in 
society  from  the  very  beginning  of  the  century,  and 
whom  the  author  has  introduced,  as  a  young  man, 
in  the  "Eegent's  Daughter,"  and,  a  few  years  later, 
in  "  Olympe  de  Cloves,"  lending  a  willing  hand  in 
the  work  of  corrupting  the  young  Louis  XV.,  and 
launching  him  upon  the  path  which  he  followed  so 
consistently  to  the  last  ghastly  hour  of  his  deplor- 
able life. 

The  historical  element  is  not  more  prominent  in 
any  of  the  author's  historical  romances  than  in  the 
one  before  us.  As  the  characters,  almost  without 
exception,  are  historical  personages,  so  it  may  be 
said  that  there  is  authority  for  almost  every  inci- 
dent of  the  narrative.  Indeed,  those  chapters 
which  deal  with  the  life  at  court  at  the  close  of 


VI  nrrRODFCTORY  note. 

the  long  reign  of  Louis  XV.,  the  ill-feeling  be- 
tween the  low-born  favorite  and  the  ill-fated 
Marie-Antoinette,  the  constantly  recurring  inci- 
dents which  were  looked  upon  by  the  king  as 
ominous  of  his  impending  death,  the  indecorous 
dissensions  at  his  bedside  between  the  factions  of 
the  Due  d'Aiguillon  and  the  Due  de  Choiseul,  the 
nnclerical  conduct  of  the  Archbishop  of  Paris,  and 
the  details  of  the  closing  scenes,  illumined  by  the 
heroic  devotion  of  the  despised  and  neglected  prin- 
cesses and  the  blind  priest,  —  those  chapters  read 
like  so  many  pages  from  some  of  the  many  histori- 
cal works  of  the  school  to  which  the  reign  of 
Louis  XV.  seems  to  offer  peculiar  attractions. 
Imbert  de  Saint-Amand,  Arsfene  Houssaye,  and  the 
De  Goncourts  occupy  prominent  positions  among 
the  writers  of  that  school,  and  most  of  the  inci- 
dents here  described  were  deemed  deserving  of  a 
place  in  their  pages. 

The  Abbd  de  Beauvais,  Bishop  of  Senez,  was  the 
Lenten  preacher  at  court  in  17.73  and  1774,  and 
much  surprise  was  felt  that  the  bold  and  outspoken 
language  of  his  sermons  did  not  prevent  his  ap- 
pointment to  the  bishopric.  The  threatening  pas- 
sage from  the  sermon  preached  on  Holy  Thursday 
— "  Forty  days  more,  sire,  and  Nineveh  will  be 
destroyed!"  —  is  historical.  Houssaye  says  that 
Louis  died  on  the  fortieth  day,^  and  the  De  Gon- 
courts cite  a  work  entitled  "Interviews  in  the 
Other  "World,"  wherein  Louis  XV.  is  represented 

I  Ars^ne  Houssaye:  "Galerie  du  XVIII'  SiMe.  — Louis  XV." 


INTKODUCTOKY   NOTE.  VH 

as  saying  to  the  Prince  de  Conti:  "You  are  well 
aware,  cousin,  that  it  was  that  infernal  sermon  on 
Holy  Thursday,  1774,  that  killed  me."  ^ 

"  The  mirror  surmounted  by  two  Cupids  holding 
a  crown  "  is  mentioned  by  the  authors  last  quoted 
as  forming  a  part  of  a  whole  toilet  set  in  solid  gold 
for  which  the  order  was  given  to  Roettiers  (Rotiers), 
but  which  was  never  completed. 

The  same  authors  refer  to  the  project  of  the  favor- 
ite to  persuade  the  pope  to  annul  her  marriage  with 
the  Comte  du  Barry.  "  He  "  (the  Abbd  du  Terray) 
"gave  substance  to  the  chimera  held  up  moment- 
arily before  the  imagination  of  the  favorite  by  the 
chancellor  and  the  Due  d'Aiguillon :  the  annulment 
of  her  marriage  with  the  Comte  du  Barry  and  a 
marriage  of  conscience  with  the  king." 

The  Marquis  de  Chauvelin  actually  existed,  but 
his  name  is  connected  only  with  the  pleasures  of 
the  king.  Like  Richelieu  and  D'Ayen,  he  has  no 
place  in  serious  history.  "  One  evening "  —  we 
quote  the  brothers  De  Goncourt  once  more  — 
"when  Louis  XV.  was  playing  at  piquet  with 
Madame  du  Barry,  and  the  Marquis  de  Chauvelin, 
his  old  friend  and  former  companion  in  dissipation, 
was  leaning  upon  the  back  of  his  chair,  Madame  du 
Barry  raised  her  eyes  and  said:  'Why,  Monsieur 
de  Chauvelin,  what  a  face  you  are  making ! '  The 
king  turned :  Chauvelin  fell  dead  at  his  feet." 

Many  different  stories  were  circulated  to  explain 
the  attack  of   smallpox,  all  having   some  connec- 

I  E.  &  J.  de  Goncourt :  "  La  du  Barry." 


Vlll  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

tion  with  the  king's  persistence  in  the  evil  courses 
in  which  he  had  indulged  so  long,  but  Voltaire  tells 
us  that  there  was  an  epidemic  of  the  disease  in  the 
neighborhood  and  that  the  king  fell  a  victim  to  it. 

There  is  no  lack  of  authority  for  the  scandalous 
scenes  about  the  bedside  of  the  dying  monarch,  as 
described  by  Dumas,  or  for  the  grewsome  details 
of  the  closing  hours  of  his  life.  Shocking  as  all  the 
circumstances  of  his  death  were,  one  cannot  avoid 
a  feeling  that  it  was  a  fitting  end  for  the  selfish, 
heartless,  weak,  pleasure-loving  king,  who  had 
taken  for  his  motto :  "  After  me  the  deluge ! "  and 
whose  life  seemed  to  be  governed  by  no  other 
sentiment  than  that  therein  implied.  The  deluge 
came  after  him,  largely  through  his  instrumentality, 
and  it  was  fitting  that  he  should  have  a  foretaste 
of  the  suffering  in  store  for  the  innocent  victims  of 
his  misgovernment  and  oppression. 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET 
NECKLACE. 

The  weird  and  fanciful  episode  of  which  Dumas  has 
made  Ernst  Theodor  Wilhelm  Hoffmann  the  hero  is 
in  Hoffmann's  own  peculiar  vein,  and  might  well 
have  been  a  conceit  of  the  gifted  German  himself, 
"  who  is  chiefly  celebrated,"  says  Dr.  Hedge,  "  for 
his  successful  use  of  the  magic  and  demoniac  ele- 
ment in  fiction." 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE.  IX 

Hoffmann  was,  as  we  are  told  by  Dumas,  born 
at  Konigsberg  in  1776.  He  was  educated  for  the 
bar,  and  during  his  early  manhood  held  several 
minor  judicial  offices  in  Posen  and  Warsaw.  In 
1816  he  became  a  councillor  in  the  Eoyal  Court  at 
Berlin.  He  died  in  1822,  at  the  early  age  of  forty- 
six,  his  constitution  having  been  undermined  by 
dissipation.  His  father,  a  man  of  bad  temper,  de- 
serted him  in  his  childhood  and  his  uncle,  a  pedant, 
educated  him.  The  combination  of  his  father's 
temper,  which  he  inherited,  and  of  his  uncle's  habits, 
which  he  acquired,  resulted  in  a  mental  unnatural- 
ness  and  unsoundness  which  he  never  outgrew.  In 
his  early  manhood  he  lost  his  position  as  a  result  of 
Napoleon's  invasion,  and  for  several  years  earned 
his  living  by  giving  lessons  in  music  and  drawing, 
two  arts  of  which  he  was  a  perfect  master.  When 
he  was  reinstated  in  his  office,  he  evinced  an  irrita- 
bility of  temper  and  had  contracted  habits  which 
unfitted  him  for  respectable  society.  He  retired 
from  the  drawing-room  to  the  tavern,  where  his 
keen  wit  and  brilliant  imagination  soon  gathered  a 
coterie  of  revellers  about  him.  His  mind  exhibited, 
according  to  Menzel,  a  curious  combination  of 
manliness,  humor,  poetry,  and  morbid  sensibility. 
"  From  the  devil  down  to  a  wry-faced  child's  doll, 
from  the  dissonance  of  life  which  rends  the  soul, 
down  to  a  dissonance  in  music  which  only  rends 
the  ear,  the  immeasurable  kingdom  of  the  ugly  and 
the  repulsive  was  gathered  about  him,  and  his 
descriptions  paint  alternately  these  tormenting  ob- 
jects and  the  torments  they  prepare  for  a  beautiful 


X  INTRODUCTORY   NOTE. 

soul,  with  inimitable  vividness  and  truth.  .  .  . 
Hoffmann's  innermost  being  was  music;  and  the 
prayer  of  St.  Anthony  is  never  wanting  to  his 
hellish  caricatures,  nor  the  Christmas  bell  to  his 
witches'  sabbath."  He  was  a  very  prolific  writer, 
principally  of  short  tales. 

Frederick  Ludwig  Zacharias  Werner  attained 
eminence  principally  as  a  dramatist.  He  was  born 
at  Konigsberg  in  1768,  and  was  therefore  eight 
years  older  than  Hoffmann.  He  became  a  Eoman 
Catholic  in  1811  and  was  ordained  a  priest  in  1814. 
He  preached  in  Vienna  during  the  Congress  of  the 
Powers,  and  made  a  tremendous  sensation  by  the 
blending  in  his  sermons  of  coarseness  and  real 
power.  He  was  in  Poland  during  1816  and  1817, 
but  in  the  latter  year  returned  to  Vienna,  where  he 
continued  to  preach  with  great  effect  until  his  death 
in  1823.  His  Works,  dramas,  lyric  poems,  hymns, 
sermons,  etc.,  fill  fourteen  volumes.  Hoffman  com- 
posed the  incidental  music  for  some  of  his  dramas. 

Danton's  weaknesses  are  so  well  known  and  so 
important  a  part  of  the  history  of  the  man  and  his 
time  that  we  need  cite  no  evidence  in  support  of  the 
vraisemUance  of  his  relations  with  Arsfene.  His 
dissipated  habits  and  his  susceptibility  to  the  charms 
of  the  other  sex  did  much  to  neutralize  the  influence 
of  his  very  great  powers  as  an  orator  and  a  dema- 
gogue, to  weaken  his  hold  upon  even  his  most  de- 
voted adherents,  and  thereby  to  hasten  his  downfall 
and  the  triumph  of  his  former  colleague  and  ally, 
Eobespierre.  "Danton,"  says  Lamartine,  "lacked 
nothing  of  being  a  great  man,  save  virtue." 


INTKODUCTORT  NOTK  XI 

It  is  impossible  to  imagine  a  more  striking  and 
instructive  contrast  than  that  presented  by  the  two 
pictures  of  Madame  du  Barry  in  the  two  romances 
contained  in  this  volume.  And  both,  it  need  hardly 
be  said,  are  equally  true  to  life.  The  bearing  and 
conduct  on  the  scaffold  of  that  woman  of  the  peo- 
ple, who  had  risen  from  the  gutter  to  the  most 
exalted  position  in  the  kingdom,  might  well  have 
caused  men's  minds  to  turn  backward  to  that  other 
day  —  only  fifty-three  days  earlier  —  when,  "  amid 
the  hooting  of  the  mob,  on  a  cold  October  morning, 
the  daughter  of  the  Caesars  was  more  sublime,  more 
majestic  than  upon  the  throne.  Dressed  in  white, 
like  a  ghost,  pale  as  death,  with  a  slight  tinge  of 
red  on  the  cheek-bones,  her  eyes  injected,  not  with 
tears  but  with  blood,  her  hair  blanched  by  mis- 
fortune, she  was,  to  the  very  end,  calm,  serene, 
magnanimous,  looking  down  with  a  sweet  pitying 
expression  upon  the  infernal  tumult  that  sur- 
rounded her."  ^ 

Speaking  of  the  conduct  of  Madame  du  Barry 
after  her  condemnation,  and  after  the  failure  of  her 
frantic,  dastardly  struggles  to  obtain'pardon,  or  even 
a  respite,  by  revealing  the  hiding-places  of  all  her 
valuables,  and  by  betraying,  giving  over  to  certain 
death,  those  whose  lives  were  endangered  solely  by 
their  devotion  to  her,  the  brothers  De  Goncourt 
say :  — 

"  It  was  a  time  when  courage  was  no  longer  of 
any  sex.     Condemned  like  men,  women  died  like 

*  Imbert  de  Saint-Amaud :  "  Lea  Dernieres  Annies  de  Loais 
XV," 


XU  INTEODUCTOEY  NOTE. 

men.  One  would  have  said  they  were  jealous  of 
the  right  to  die.  Some  mounted  the  scaffold  as  if  to 
the  sacrifice,  others  as  if  it  were  the  pulpit.  Some 
seemed  to  be  marching  forward  to  posterity,  others 
to  a  new  fatherland.  Each  was  worthy  of  alL 
Bourgeoises  died  like  Eoman  matrons,  great  ladies 
died  like  great  noblemen,  queens  died  like  kings. 
But  all  had  the  force  of  an  idea,  a  principle,  a  faith, 
a  duty,  a  right,  a  passion,  an  illusion,  —  something 
in  short  that  sustains  the  soul  and  enables  it  to  face 
death.  Madame  du  Barry  had  nothing  of  the  sort 
to  enable  her  to  die  ;  and  if  there  is  in  her  story  a 
scandal  that  should  be  forgiven  her,  it  is  the  scandal 
of  a  death  that  moved  the  heart  of  the  Terror. 

"  As  she  mounted  the  tumbril,  Madame  du  Barry, 
fco  whom  at  the  time  of  her  confession  Denisot  the 
magistrate  had  held  out  vague  hopes  of  pardon,  and 
who,  although  her  hair  had  been  cut  off,  did  not 
believe  that  she  was  going  to  die,  —  Madame  du 
Barry  became  as  white  as  the  dress  she  wore. 

"  The  mob  —  a  Sunday  mob  —  was  awaiting  the 
unhappy  woman.  And  in  the  front  ranks  the  pris- 
oner could  see  Greive,  who  said  that  evening :  *  I 
never  laughed  so  much  in  my  life  as  I  did  when  I 

saw  the  wry  faces  that  pretty made  because 

she  was  going  to  die.' 

"  The  horses  moved  forward  slowly. 

"The  people  crowded  around  to  look  at  the  ci- 
devant  tyrant's  harlot.  «• 

"She  at  whom  they  gazed  saw  nothing,  heard 
nothing ;  she  did  naught  but  sigh  and  sob  and 
choke.  .  .  . 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE.  xiil 

"  Suddenly,  at  the  Barrifere  des  Sergents  near  the 
Palais-Koyal,  she  raised  her  eyes  as  she  was  passing 
a  milliner's  shop  where  the  girls  had  assembled  on 
the  balcony  to  see,  for  the  last  time,  her  who  had 
been  Madame  du  Barry :  it  was  the  shop  where  she 
had  once  been  a  milliner's  apprentice. 

"  The  executioner  and  his  assistants  had  difficulty 
in  holding  her,  in  keeping  her  upon  the  tumbril, 
for  the  convulsions  of  terror  made  her  struggle 
to  throw  herself  to  the  ground. 

"  These  violent  struggles,  these  shrieks  were  suc- 
ceeded by  entreaties  mingled  with  tears;  and  the 
woman,  brushing  back  her  short  hair  from  her 
brow  and  her  eyes,  leaned  out  over  the  mob,  hun- 
gering to  witness  her  death,  and  exclaimed:  *My 
friends  —  save  me  —  I  never  injured  any  one  —  in 
heaven's  name,  save  me  ! ' 

"  The  crowd  was  amazed.  They  were  so  accus- 
tomed to  see  the  victims  die  nobly,  die  a  la  hravade, 
that  it  seemed  to  them  for  the  first  time  as  if  a 
woman  was  about  to  be  murdered. 

"  Meanwhile  she  exclaimed,  still  weeping,  '  Life ! 
life  !  —  give  me  my  life.  I  give  all  my  property  to 
the  nation  ! ' 

" '  Your  property  !  why,  you  only  give  the  nation 
what  belongs  to  it  already.' 

"  A  charcoal-burner  who  was  standing  in  front  of 
the  scoffer  turned,  and,  without  a  word,  struck  him 
in  the  face. 

"Throughout  the   silent,  stupefied  groups   there 


XiV  INTEODUCTORY  NOTE. 

was  that  first  thrill  of  emotion  which  is,  in  a  multi- 
tude, a  sort  of  shudder  of  compassion. 

"  The  driver  whipped  up  his  horses  and  abridged 
the  spectacle. 

"  The  tumbril  arrived  on  Place  de  la  E^volution 
at  half-past  four  in  the  afternoon. 

"  Madame  du  Barry  alighted  first.  On  the  steps 
leading  to  the  scaffold,  desperate,  mad  with  anguish 
and  terror,  she  struggled,  implored,  begged  the 
executioner  for  mercy :  '  Just  one  minute  more, 
Monsieur  le  Bourreau!'  -and  then,  as  the  knife 
descended  :  '  Help  !  help ! '  like  a  woman  murdered 
by  thieves."  ^ 

Saint-Amand  puts  the  following  words  in  the 
mouth  of  Madame  du  Barry,  speaking  from  the 
grave  in  her  turn  as  the  last  of  the  mistresses  of 
Louis  XV :  — 

" '  I  paid  dear  for  the  joys  of  luxury  and  a  life 
of  licentiousness;  I  knew  not  how  to  live  nor  to 
die.  At  a  time  when  heroism  was  a  commonplace 
quality  I  was  weak  and  afraid,  I  shuddered  on  the 
scaffold!'" 

The  early  chapters  of  "The  Woman  with  the 
Velvet  Necklace,"  and  of  "  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin's 
Will"  as  well,  afford  an  excellent  illustration  of 
the  accuracy  of  the  statement  made  by  M.  Blaze  de 
Bury  in  his  book  upon  the  works  of  the  elder  Dumas. 
He  says  that  Dumas  has  told  the  story  of  the  most 
important  events  of  his  life  in  his  books,  and  has 
thereby   obviated   the   necessity    of   a   biography. 

1  E.  &  J.  de  Goncourt :  "  La  du  Barry." 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE.  XV 

Charles  Nodier  was  one  of  the  dearest  of  the  many 
dear  friends  who  did  homage  to  the  many  lovable 
qualities  of  the  great  romancist,  and  this  is  not  the 
only  one  of  Dumas'  works  in  which  he  has  taken 
occasion  to  express  his  appreciation  of  the  friendship 
and  kindness  of  that  accomplished,  versatile,  and 
prolific  man  of  letters,  and  discoverer  of  the 
taratantaleo. 

The  story  of  Dumas'  first  acquaintance  with 
Monsieur  de  Villenave  and  with  Nodier  is  told 
by  him  in  substantially  the  same  form,  but  with 
somewhat  more  detail,  in  the  fifth  volume  of  "  Mes 
Memoires." 


LIST  OF  CHARACTERS. 

Period,  1774. 


.  of  the  French  Court. 


Louis  XV.,  King  of  France. 

The  Dauphin,  afterwards  Louis  XVI. 

Marie  Antoinette,  the  Dauphiness. 

Due  DE  Richelieu,         ' 

Marquis  de  Chauvelin, 

Due  d'Aiguillon, 

Due  DE  Choiseul, 

Due  d'Aumont, 

Due  de  liA  Vrilliere, 

Due  de  Coignt, 

Due  d'Ayen, 

CoMTEssE  DU  Barry,  the  King's  mistress. 

Chon,  her  sister. 

Christophe  DE  Beaumont,  Archbishop  of  Paris. 

Monsieur  de  Lorry,  Bishop  of  Tarbes. 

Cardinal  de  la  Boche-Aymon. 

The  Bishop  of  Carcassonne. 

Abbe  de  Laville. 

Abbe  de  Broglio. 

Monsieur  de  Sartines. 

Monsieur  Lamartiniere,  the  King's  first  surgeon. 

Monsieur  Bonnard,  >    i     •  •       j.   j.i     t^- 
,,  _.  '  >■  physicians  to  the  King. 

Monsieur  Bordeu,    ) 

Marquise  de  Chauvelin,  wife  of  Marquis  de  Chauvelin. 


xviii  LIST   OF  CHARACTERS. 

Pere  Delab,  her  spiritual  director. 

The  Childken  of  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Chauvelin. 

Abbe  de  Villenave,  their  tutor. 

BoNBONNE,  steward  of  Marquis  de  Chauvelin. 

A  Courier  of  the  King. 

La  Gourd  an. 

Sophie  Abnould,  an  actress. 


CONTENTS. 


MONSIEUR  DE  CHAUVELIN'S  WILL. 

Chaftek  Faoe 

I.  The  House  on  Rue  de  Yaugirard  ....  1 

II.  A  Pastel  by  Latour 13 

III.  The  Letter 23 

IV.  The  King's  Physician 35 

V.  The  King's  Morning  Reception 48 

VI.  Madame  du  Barry's  Mirror 59 

VII.  The  Monk,  the  Tutor,  the  Steward    ...  69 

VIII.  The  Gambler's  Oath 78 

IX.  Venus  and  Psyche 93 

X.  The  King's  Card-party 104- 

XL  The  Vision 115 

XII.  The  Death  of  Louis  XV 132 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

I.    The  Arsenal 149 

II.    The  Hoffmann  Eamily 191 

III.  A  Lover  and  a  Madman 198 

IV.  Master  Gottlieb  Murr 208 

V.     Antonia 221 

VI.     Tue  Oath 229 

VII.    A  Paris  Barrier  in  1793 239 


XX  CONTENTS. 

Cbaftkb  Paoi 

Vni.  How  THE  Museums  and  Libearies  were  Closed, 

BUT  Place  de  la  Revolution  was  Open  .  251 

IX.  The  Judgment  or  Paris 261 

X.  Absene 270 

XI.  The  Second  Performance  op  the  Judgment 

OP  Paris 2S3 

XII.  The  Wine-shop 294 

XIII.  The  Portrait 303 

XIV.  The  Tempter 312 

XV.  Number  113 320 

XVI.  The  Locket 331 

XVII.  A  Hotel  on  Rue  Saint-HonorI! 340 


BLANCHE  DE  BEAULIEU 363 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

CHAUVELIN'S  WILL 
Louis  XV. V     .     .     Frontispiece 

VELVET  NECKLACE 

Comtesse  du  Barry Frontispiece 

From  an  engraving. 

BLANCHE  DE  BEAULIEU 
General  Alexander  Dumas Frontispiece 


MONSIEUR  DE  CHAUVEIIN'S  WILL 


THE  HOUSE  ON  RUE  DB  VAUGIRARD. 

As  you  go  from  Kue  du  Cherche-Midi  to  Kue  Notre- 
Dame  des  Champs,  you  may  notice  at  your  left,  facing  a 
fountain  at  the  corner  of  Rue  du  Eegard  and  Rue  de 
Vaugirard,  a  small  house  entered  on  the  municipal  registers 
as  Number  84. 

And  now,  before  going  farther,  let  me  make  a  confes- 
sion which  I  hesitated  to  make.  Although  I  was  welcomed 
in  that  house  with  the  most  open-hearted  friendship, 
almost  from  the  day  of  my  arrival  from  the  provinces ; 
although  for  three  years  it  was  like  my  brother's  house  to 
me ;  although  in  all  my  griefs  or  joys,  I  might  safely 
have  knocked  at  the  door  of  that  house  with  my  eyes 
closed,  certain  that  it  would  open  to  my  tears  or  my 
smiles ;  nevertheless,  I  was  compelled,  in  order  to  state 
its  location  accurately  to  my  readers,  to  locate  it  myself 
on  a  map  of  the  city  of  Paris. 

Mon  Dieu !  who  would  have  believed  it  twenty  years 
ago] 

The  fact  is  that,  during  the  last  twenty  years,  such  a 
multiplicity  of  events,  like  a  constantly  rising  tide,  has 
1 


2  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN  S   WILL. 

extinguished  in  the  men  of  our  generation  the  memories 
of  their  youth,  that  they  no  longer  remember  with  the 
memory, —  the  memory  has  its  twilight  in  which  far-off 
souvenirs  fade  away, —  but  with  the  heart. 

And  so,  when  I  lay  aside  my  memory  and  take  refuge 
in  my  heart,  I  find  there,  as  in  a  consecrated  tabernacle, 
all  the  treasured  souvenirs  which  have  escaped  one  by  one 
from  my  life,  as  the  water  trickles  drop  by  drop  through 
the  cracks  in  a  vase ;  in  the  heart  there  is  no  twilight 
growing  ever  darker  and  darker,  but  a  constantly  brighten- 
ing dawn.  The  memory  tends  to  darkness,  that  is  to  say 
to  nothingness ;  the  heart  tends  to  light,  that  is  to  say  to 
God. 

However,  the  little  house  is  there,  surrounded  by  a 
gray  wall  behind  which  it  is  half  hidden,  —  for  sale,  so  I 
am  told,  on  the  point  of  escaping  from  the  hospitable 
hands  that  opened  its  doors  to  me,  alas  ! 

Let  me  tell  you  how  I  first  came  to  enter  those  doors. 
That  will  lead  us  —  by  a  roundabout  path,  I  know  —  to 
the  story  I  have  to  tell  you ;  but  no  matter,  come  with 
me,  we  will  talk  as  we  follow  the  path,  and  I  will  try  to 
make  it  seem  shorter  to  you  than  it  really  is. 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  1826,  I  think.  I  spoke 
of  an  interval  of  twenty  years  only,  and  it  is  twenty- 
two  years  since,  you  see.  I  was  then  twenty-three  years 
old. 

I  have  told  you  of  my  literary  dreams,  apropos  of  poor 
James  Rousseau.  Even  as  early  as  1826  they  had  be- 
come more  ambitious.  I  was  no  longer  writing  "  La  Chasse 
et  I'Amour  "  in  collaboration  with  Adolphe  de  Leuven ;  nor 
was  I  then  at  work  upon  "  La  Noce  et  1'  Enterrement "  with 
Vulplan  and  Lasaagne  :  I  was  dreaming  of  "  Christine  " 
all  by  myself.  A  lovely  dream  !  a  glowing,  resplendent 
dream,  which,  in  my  juveniie  hopes,  was  to  open  to  me 


THE  HOUSE  ON  RUE  DE  VAUGIRAED.       3 

the  garden  of  the  Hesperides,  the  garden  with  the  golden 
fruit  of  which  Criticism  is  the  attendant  dragon. 

Meanwhile,  poor  Hercules  that  I  was,  Necessity  had 
placed  a  world  on  my  shoulders.  An  evil-minded  goddess 
is  that  same  I^ecessity,  for  she  had  not  even,  as  in  poor 
Atlas'  case,  the  excuse  of  desiring  to  rest  for  an  hour  by 
crushing  me. 

No,  ISTecessity  crushed  me  —  me  and  many  others  —  as 
I  crush  an  anthill.  Why  1  "Who  knows  ?  Because  I 
happened  to  be  under  her  feet  and  because  the  cold 
goddess  with  the  iron  nails,  having  a  bandage  over  her 
eyes,  did  not  see  me. 

The  world  that  she  had  placed  upon  my  shoulders  was 
my  office  desk. 

I  earned  a  hundred  and  twenty-five  francs  a  month,  and 
for  that  hundred  and  twenty-five  francs  this  is  what  I 
was  obliged  to  do. 

I  went  to  my  office  at  ten  o'clock  ;  I  left  at  five  ;  but  I 
returned  in  the  evening  at  seven  and  remained  till  ten. 

Why  that  extra  amount  of  labor,  in  the  summer,  at 
that  hour  in  the  evening,  that  is  to  say,  at  the  very  time 
when  it  would  have  been  so  pleasant  to  breathe  the  pure 
air  of  the  country  or  the  intoxicating  atmosphere  of  the 
theatres  ? 

I  will  tell  you  why :  The  Due  d'Orleans'  portfolio  had 
to  be  made  up. 

That  aide-de-camp  of  Dumouriez  at  Jemappes  and 
Valmy,  that  outlaw  of  1792,  that  professor  at  the  college 
of  Reichenau,  that  explorer  of  Cape  Horn,  that  citizen  of 
America,  that  prince  who  was  the  friend  of  the  Foys,  the 
Manuels,  the  Laffittes,  and  the  Lafayettes,  that  king  of 
1830,  that  exile  of  1848,  was  in  1826  still  called  the 
Due  d'Orleans. 

It  was  the   happy  period  of  his  life;  as  I  had  my 


4  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

dr^am,  so  he  had  his.     My  dream  was  success  for  my 
work ;  his  dream  was  the  throne. 

0  my  God!  have  compassion  on  the  king!  O  my 
God  !  grant  peace  to  the  gray-haired  man !  0  my  God  ! 
give  to  the  husband  and  father  all  the  paternal  and  con- 
jugal happiness  that  are  still  possible,  in  the  infinite 
treasures  of  thy  loving-kindness  ! 

Alas  1  at  Dreux,  I  saw  bitter  tears  flow  from  the  eyes 
of  that  crowned  father  on  the  tomb  of  the  son  who  was 
to  wear  a  crown. 

Is  it  not  true,  sire,  that  the  loss  of  your  crown  did  not 
cost  you  so  many  tears  as  the  death  of  your  child  1 

Let  us  return  to  the  Due  d'Orleans  and  his  portfolio. 

That  portfolio  contained  the  day's  mail  and  the  evening 
papers,  which  had  to  be  sent  to  Neuilly. 

And  then,  when  the  portfolio  had  been  despatched  by 
a  courier  on  horseback,  we  had  to  await  the  reply. 

The  latest  comer  in  the  office  was  assigned  to  that  task, 
and,  as  I  was  the  latest  comer,  it  was  divided  between 
myself  and  one  other.  My  colleague  Ernest  Banet  was 
detailed  to  make  up  the  morning  portfolio.  We  alternated 
in  making  up  the  portfolio  on  Sunday. 

So  it  was  that  on  a  certain  evening,  after  despatching 
the  portfolio  and  while  awaiting  the  messenger's  return,  I 
was  scratching  off  a  few  lines  of  "  Christine,"  when  the 
office  door  opened,  a  shapely  head,  covered  with  light, 
curly  hair,  appeared  in  the  opening,  and  a  voice  with  a 
slightly  mocking  accent  emitted,  in  tones  that  approached 
shrillness,  the  three  monosyllables,  — 

"Are  you  there?" 

"  Yes,"  I  answered  quickly.     "  Come  in." 

1  had  recognized  Cordelier  Delanoue,  who  was,  like 
myself,  the  son  of  a  former  general  of  the  Republic,  and, 
also  like  myself,  a  poet.     "Why  has  he  been  less  successful 


THE  HOUSE  ON  EUE  DE  VAUGIEAED.       5 

than  I  in  the  career  we  have  followed  together  1  I  have 
no  idea.  He  certainly  has  a  brighter  intellect  than  mine, 
and  he  writes  undeniably  better  poetry. 

Everything  in  this  world  is  a  caprice  of  chance,  good 
luck  or  bad  luck.  Not  till  we  are  dead  shall  we  know 
which  of  us  two,  he  or  I,  has  had  the  good  luck  or  the 
bad  luck. 

Cordelier  Delanoue's  visit  was  a  bit  of  good  fortune. 
Like  all  the  people  I  have  loved,  I  loved  him  then  and 
I  love  him  today ;  but  I  love  him  more  than  I  did,  and  I 
am  sure  that  it  is  the  same  with  him. 

He  came  to  ask  me  if  I  cared  to  go  to  the  Athen6e  to 
hear  a  dissertation  upon  some  subject  or  other. 

The  dissertator  was  Monsieur  de  Villenave. 

I  knew  Monsieur  de  Yillenave  by  name  only.  I  knew 
that  he  had  made  a  translation  of  Ovid  that  was  highly 
esteemed,  and  that  he  had  formerly  been  secretary  to 
Monsieur  de  Malesherbes  and  tutor  of  Monsieur  le  Mar- 
quis de  Chauvelin's  children. 

At  that  time,  the  play  or  diversion  of  any  sort  was  a 
very  infrequent  experience  with  me.  All  the  doors  of 
theatres  and  salons  which  have  since  been  thrown  open 
to  the  author  of  "  Henri  III."  and  "  Christine "  were 
closed  to  the  clerk  on  a  salary  of  fifteen  hundred  francs, 
whose  duty  it  was  to  make  up  Monsieur  le  Due  d'Orl^ans' 
evening  portfolio.  I  accepted,  and  requested  Delanoue  to 
await  the  courier's  return  with  me. 

While  we  were  waiting  he  read  me  an  ode  he  had 
written.  It  was  a  preparation  for  the  seance  at  the 
Athenee. 

The  courier  returned  ;  I  was  free,  and  we  bent  our  steps 
toward  Rue  de  Valois. 

It  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  tell  you  in  what  part 
of  Rue  de  Valois  the  meetings  of  the  Athenee  were  held ; 


6  MONSIEUR   DE   CHAUVELIN's  WILL. 

that  was  the  only  time,  I  believe,  that  I  ever  went  there. 
I  never  cared  much  for  such  functions,  where  a  single 
person  does  the  talking  and  everybody  else  listens.  The 
subject  must  needs  be  very  interesting  or  very  unfamiliar, 
the  person  who  speaks  on  that  subject  must  needs  be  very 
eloquent  or  very  picturesque,  for  me  to  find  any  attraction 
in  that  uncontroverted  discourse,  when  contradiction 
would  be  contrary  to  propriety  and  criticism  discourteous. 

I  have  never  been  able  to  listen  uninterruptedly  to  an 
orator  or  preacher.  There  is  always  some  corner  of  the 
discourse  upon  which  I  catch,  and  which  causes  my 
thought  to  make  a  halt  while  the  discourse  goes  on. 
Having  once  halted,  I  naturally  begin  to  look  at  the  sub- 
ject from  my  own  point  of  view;  so  that  I  make  my 
speech  or  my  sermon  in  an  undertone  while  he  is  mak- 
ing his  aloud.  When  we  have  both  reached  the  end, 
we  are  often  a  hundred  leagues  apart,  although  we 
started   from  the  same  point. 

It  is  the  same  with  plays.  Unless  it  be  the  first  per- 
formance of  a  play  written  for  Arnol,  Grassot,  or  Ravel, 
that  is  to  say,  of  a  work  which  is  completely  out  of  my 
own  line  and  which  t  frankly  confess  my  inability  to 
produce,  I  am  the  worst  "  first-nighter  "  imaginable.  If 
the  play  is  an  imaginative  one,  the  characters  no  sooner 
appear  than  they  cease  to  be  the  author's  creations  and 
become  my  own.  In  the  first  entr'acte  I  take  them,  I 
appropriate  them.  Instead  of  waiting  for  what  is  to 
come  in  the  remaining  four  acts,  I  introduce  them  into 
four  acts  of  my  own  composition ;  I  make  the  most  of 
their  characters,  I  utilize  what  tliere  is  original  about 
them.  If  the  entr'acte  lasts  no  more  than  ten  minutes, 
that  is  more  than  I  need  to  build  for  them  the  card-house 
into  which  I  induct  them,  and  it  is  the  same  with  my 
dramatic  card-house  as  with  the  discourse  or  the  sermon 


THE  HOUSE  ON  EUE  DE  VAUGIRARD.      7 

of  which  I  spoke  just  now.  My  card-house  is  almost 
never  identical  witli  tlie  author's,  so  that,  as  I  have  made 
a  reality  of  my  dream,  it  is  reality  that  seems  a  dream  to 
me,  a  dream  which  I  am  all  ready  to  combat,  saying, 
"  Why,  that 's  not  right.  Monsieur  Arthur, —  Why,  that 's 
not  right,  Mademoiselle  Honorine.  —  You  go  too  fast  or 
too  slow ;  you  turn  to  the  right  instead'  of  to  the  left ; 
you  say  yes  when  you  ought  to  say  no.  Oh !  oh  !  oh  ! 
why,  this  is  unendurable  !  " 

With  historical  plays  it  is  much  worse.  I  naturally 
have  in  my  head  my  own  play  all  thought  out  upon  the 
subject  treated ;  and  as  it  naturally  is  constructed  with  all 
my  faults,  that  is  to  say  with  abundance  of  details,  with 
absolute  rigidity  of  characters,  and  with  a  double,  triple, 
or  quadruple  plot,  it  very  rarely  happens  that  my  play 
bears  the  remotest  resemblance  to  the  one  that  is  being 
played.  Wherefore  something  that  furnishes  entertain- 
ment to  others  becomes  simply  torture  to  me. 

Now  my  confreres  are  warned ;  if  they  invite  me  to  the 
first  performance  of  their  plays  now,  they  know  on  what 
conditions  I  attend. 

I  did  that  evening  for  Monsieur  de  Villenave  what  I 
do  for  everybody  else ;  however,  as  I  arrived  when  his 
lecture  was  three-fourths  done,  I  began  by  looking  at  him 
instead  of  listening  to  him. 

He  was  at  that  time  a  tall  old  man,  sixty-four  or  sixty- 
five  years  old,  with  hair  of  the  purest  silver,  a  pale  com- 
plexion, and  bright  black  eyes.  There  was  in  his  dress 
that  sort  of  absent-minded  neatness  characteristic  of  the 
man  who  dresses  once  or  twice  a  week,  no  more,  and  dur- 
ing the  balance  of  the  time  sits  about  in  the  dust  of  his 
study,  in  an  old  pair  of  trousers,  an  old  dressing-gown,  and 
a  pair  of  old  shoes.  It  is  the  duty  of  the  wife  or  the 
daughter,  of  the  housekeeper  in  fact,  to  make  ready  the 


8  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN'S  WILL. 

holiday  costume,  with  the  frilled  shirt  and  ruffle,  and  the 
starched  white  cravat.  Hence  the  species  of  protest 
entered  hy  that  well-beaten,  well-brushed  costume  against 
the  every-day  costume,  which,  for  its  part,  has  a  horror 
of  the  bamboo  switch  and  the  whisk-broom. 

Monsieur  de  Villenave  wore  a  blue  coat  with  brass 
buttons,  black  trousers,  a  white  waistcoat,  and  a  white 
cravat. 

A  strange  mechanism  that  of  the  thought,  —  intellectual 
machinery  which  goes  or  stops  regardless  of  what  we  may 
do,  because  it  is  God's  hand  that  sets  it  up ;  a  clock, 
which  strikes,  at  the  bidding  of  its  caprice,  the  hours  of 
the  past  and  sometimes  those  of  the  future. 

Upon  what  did  my  mind  stop  as  I  looked  at  Mon- 
sieur de  Villenave?  Was  it,  as  I  said  just  now,  upon 
a  corner  of  his  discourse?  No,  but  upon  a  corner  of 
his    life. 

I  had  read  at  some  time  —  where,  I  have  no  idea — a 
pamphlet  by  Monsieur  de  Villenave,  published  in  1794, 
entitled  :  "  Relation  de  Voyage  de  132  Nantais." 

It  was  on  that  episode  of  Monsieur  de  Villenave's  life 
that  my  mind  caught,  so  to  speak,  when  I  saw  Monsieur 
de  Villenave  for  the  first  time. 

Monsieur  de  Villenave  had,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  lived  at 
Nantes  in  1793,  at  the  same  time  that  Jean-Baptiste 
Carrier  of  bloody  memory  lived  there. 

There  he  had  seen  the  proconsul,  deeming  the  trials  too 
long  and  the  guillotine  too  slow,  suppress  the  trials, — which 
were  entirely  useless,  by  the  way,  as  they  never  saved  the 
accused,  —  and  substitute  for  the  guillotine  the  boats  with 
airholes.  He  may  perhaps  have  been  on  the  quay  on  the 
Loire  on  the  15th  November,  1793,  when  Carrier,  as  an 
initial  test  of  his  republican  baths  and  vertical  banishment 
—  such  were  the  names  he  bestowed  upon  the  new  style 


THE  HOUSE  ON  KUE  DE  VAUGIRARD.      9 

of  punishment  invented  by  him  —  caused  ninety-four 
priests  to  embark,  on  the  pretext  that  they  were  to  be 
taken  to  Belle  Isle.  He  may  have  been  on  the  bank  of 
the  river  when  the  horrified  current  cast  upon  the  bank 
the  dead  bodies  of  the  ninety-four  men  of  God.  He  may 
then  have  revolted  at  that  spectacle,  which,  being  renewed 
every  night,  after  a  little  time  so  corrupted  the  water  of 
the  river  that  the  people  were  forbidden  to  drink  it.  Per- 
haps he  was  even  more  imprudent  than  that,  and  went  so 
far  as  to  give  Christian  burial  to  some  of  those  first  vic- 
tims, who  were  destined  to  be  followed  by  so  many 
others.  At  all  events  it  came  to  pass  that  Monsieur  de 
Villenave  was  arrested  one  morning  and  cast  into  prison, 
and  was  destined,  with  his  companions,  to  do  his  part 
toward  corrupting  the  river,  when  Carrier  changed  his 
mind.  He  selected  a  hundred  and  thirty-two  prisoners 
and  despatched  them  to  Paris,  as  a  mark  of  homage  from 
the  provincial  scaff'olds  to  the  guillotine  at  the  capital ; 
but  doubtless  that  mark  of  homage  failed  to  satisfy  him, 
for  he  sent  orders  to  Captain  Boussard,  commanding  the 
escort,  to  shoot  his  hundred  and  thirty-two  prisoners  on 
arriving  at  Ancenis. 

Boussard  was  a  good  fellow,  so  he  did  nothing  of  the 
sort,  but  kept  on  towards  Paris. 

Carrier,  being  apprised  of  his  failure  to  obey,  de- 
spatched orders  to  Hentz,  a  member  of  the  Convention, 
who  was  proconsul  at  Angers,  to  arrest  Boussard  when 
he  arrived  there,  and  to  throw  the  hundred  and  thirty-two 
Nantes  men  into  the  water. 

Hentz  had  Boussard  arrested  ;  but  when  it  came  to 
drowning  the  hundred  and  thirty-two  prisoners,  the  brass 
of  his  revolutionary  heart,  which  seems  not  to  have  been 
of  triple  thickness,  melted,  and  he  ordered  the  victims 
to  march  on  toward  Paris,  —  a  proceeding  which  caused 


10  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN'S  WILL. 

Carrier  to  remark,  shaking  his  head  contemptuously, 
'  A  poor  drovmer,  that  Hentz,  a  poor  drowner  !  " 

And  so  the  prisoners  continued  their  journey.  Out  of 
a  hundred  and  thirty-two,  thirty-six  died  before  reaching 
Paris,  and  the  ninety-six  who  did  arrive,  arrived,  kickily 
for  them,  just  in  time  to  testify  at  the  trial  of  Carrier, 
instead  of  answering  as  defendants  upon  their  own  trial. 

The  9th  Thermidor  had  come,  the  day  of  reprisals  had 
dawned,  the  turn  of  the  judges  to  be  judged  had  arrived, 
and  the  Convention,  after  a  month's  hesitation,  had 
ordered  the  prosecution  of  the  greai,  drowner. 

The  result  was  that,  at  the  memory  of  the  pamphlet 
which  Monsieur  de  Villenave  had  published  thirty-two 
years  before,  in  his  prison,  I  allowed  my  thoughts  to 
wander  back  over  the  past,  and  what  I  saw,  what  I  heard, 
was  no  longer  a  literary  address,  delivered  by  a  professor 
at  the  Athenee,  but  a  terrible,  scathing,  deadly  arraign- 
ment of  the  strong  by  the  weak,  of  the  judge  by  the 
accused,  of  the  executioner  by  the  victim. 

And  so  great  is  the  power  of  the  imagination  that  hall, 
spectators,  tribune,  all  were  transformed  :  the  lecture- 
room  of  the  Athenee  became  the  hall  of  the  Convention ; 
the  peaceful  auditors  were  changed  to  wrathful  avengers, 
and  the  eloquent  professor  with  the  smooth-flowing  peri- 
ods was  thundering  forth  a  public  accusation,  demanding 
the  death  penalty,  and  bewailing  the  fact  that  Carrier  had 
but  a  single  life,  wretchedly  inadequate  to  pay  for  the 
fifteen  thousand  lives  he  had  cut  short. 

And  I  seemed  to  see  Carrier,  with  his  lowering  stare, 
shattering  the  accusation  with  his  glance,  and  to  hear  him 
crying  in  his  strident  voice  to  his  former  colleagues,  — 

"  Why  blame  mo  to-day  for  what  you  ordered  me  to  do 
yesterday  1  Why,  in  accusing  me  the  Convention  accuses 
itself.     My  condemnation  will  be  the  condemnation  of 


THE  HOUSE  ON  KUE  DE  VAUGIRAKD.      11 

you  all ;  remember  that !  You  will  all  be  included  in  the 
proscription  that  includes  me.  If  I  am  guilty,  then 
everything  in  this  room  is  guilty ;  yes,  everything,  every- 
thing, everything,  even  to  the  president's  bell." 

But,  in  spite  of  all  that,  they  voted  upon  his  fate  ;  in 
spite  of  it  all,  he  was  condemned.  The  same  terror  which 
Lad  guided  the  action  guided  the  reaction,  and  the 
guillotine,  after  drinking  the  blood  of  the  condemned, 
impassively  drank  the  blood  of  the  judges  and  execu- 
tioners ! 

I  had  let  my  head  fall  between  my  hands,  as  if  it 
were  repugnant  to  me,  execrable  homicide  though  the 
man  was,  to  see  him  suffer  the  death  he  had  inflicted  so 
freely  upon  humanity. 

Delanoue  touched  me  on  the  shoulder. 

"  It  is  done,"  he  said. 

"  Ah  !  "  I  replied,  "  is  he  executed  ? " 

"  Who  1 " 

"  That  abominable  Carrier." 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,"  said  Delanoue,  "and  it 's  a  good  thirty- 
two  years  since  that  little  misfortune  happened  to  him." 

"  Ah  !  you  did  well  to  wake  me,"  I  said.  "  I  was 
having  a  nightmare." 

"  So  you  were  asleep,  eh  1 " 

"  At  all  events  I  was  dreaming." 

"  The  devil !  I  won't  tell  Monsieur  de  Villenave  that. 
I  am  going  to  take  you  to  his  house  to  have  a  cup 
of  tea." 

"  Oh !  you  can  tell  him  if  you  choose ;  I  will  describe 
my  dream,  and  he  won't  be  offended." 

Thereupon  Delanoue,  stiU  uncertain  whether  I  was 
iteally  awake  or  not,  led  me  from  the  empty  lecture-room 
into  a  reception-room,  where  Monsieur  de  Villenave  was 
receiving  the  congratulations  of  his  friends. 


12  MONSIEUR   DE   CHAUYELIN'S   WILL. 

There,  I  was  presented  in  the  first  place  to  Monsieur  de 
Villenave,  then  to  Madame  Melanie  Waldor,  his  daughter, 
then  to  Monsieur  Theodore  de  Villenave,  his  son. 

After  that  we  all  repaired  on  foot,  by  the  Pont  des  Arts, 
to  Faubourg  Saint  Germain. 

After  half  an  hour's  walk  we  reached  our  destination 
and  disappeared,  one  after  another,  in  that  house  on  Eue 
de  Vaugirard  which  I  mentioned  at  the  beginning  of 
this  chapter,  and  of  whose  interior  I  propose  to  give 
a  description,  after  a  short  sketch  of  its  external 
aspect. 


A  PASTEL  BY    LATOXJE.  13 


n. 


A  PASTEL  BY   LATOUB. 

The  house  had  an  individuality  of  its  own,  borrowed 
from  that  of  the  man  who  Hved  in  it. 

We  have  said  that  the  walls  were  gray;  we  should 
have  said  that  they  were  black. 

You  entered  the  premises  through  a  large  gate,  cut  in 
the  wall,  directly  adjoining  the  porter's  lodge ;  you  then 
found  yourself  in  a  garden  without  flower-beds,  trodden 
everywhere,  with  trellises  without  grapes,  arbors  without 
shade,  trees  almost  without  leaves.  If  a  flower  did  hap- 
pen to  grow  in  a  corner,  it  was  one  of  those  wild  flowers, 
which  are  almost  ashamed  to  show  themselves  in  the  city, 
and  which,  mistaking  that  dark,  damp  enclosure  for  a 
little  desert,  had  grown  up  there  by  mistake,  believing 
itself  farther  than  it  really  was  ^from  the  habitations  of 
men,  only  to  be  plucked-  at  once  by  a  lovely,  rosy-cheeked 
child,  with  fair  curly  hair,  who  seemed  a  cherub  fallen 
from  heaven  and  out  of  place  in  that  out-of-the-way 
corner  of  earth. 

From  the  garden,  which  was  some  forty  or  fifty  feet 
square,  and  which  ended  in  a  broad,  paved  strip  adjoining 
the  house,  you  entered  a  tiled  corridor. 

Upon  that  corridor,  at  the  end  of  which  was  a  staircase, 
four  doors  opened  :  on  the  left,  the  doors  of  the  dining- 
room  and  kitchen  ;  on  the  right,  the  door  of  a  small  room, 
and  the  door  leading  to  the  pantry  and  offices. 

This  ground  floor,  which  was  dark  and  damp,  was  hardly 
occupied  except  at  the  hours  for  meals. 


14  MONSIEUE  DE   CHAUVELIN's   WILL. 

The  real  dwelling,  that  to  which  we  were  taken,  was 
the  first  floor. 

On  the  first  floor  were  the  landing,  a  small  salon,  a 
large  salon,  Madame  Waldor's  bedroom  and  Madame  de 
Villenave's  bedroom. 

The  salon  was  noticeable  both  in  shape  and  furnishing. 

It  was  oblong  in  shape  with  a  console  and  a  bust  in 
each  corner. 

One  of  the  busts  was  of  Monsieur  de  ViUenave. 

Between  the  two  busts  at  the  farther  end,  on  a  console 
facing  the  fireplace,  was  the  most  important  work  of  art 
and  archaeology  in  the  salon. 

It  was  the  bronze  urn  which  had  contained  Bayard's 
heart ;  a  small  bas-relief  on  its  circumference  represented 
the  chevalier  sans  peur  et  sans  reproche  lowering  the 
hilt  of   his  sword. 

Next  came  two  large  pictures  :  one  by  Holbein,  a  por- 
trait of  Anne  Boleyn ;  the  other  by  Claude  Lorraine, 
representing  an  Italian  landscape. 

I  believe  that  the  two  frames  which  hung  opposite 
those  pictures  contained,  one  a  portrait  of  Madame  de 
Montespan,  and  the  other  a  portrait  of  Madame  de 
S^vignd  or  Madame  de  Grignan. 

Of  furniture  upholstered  in  Utrecht  velvet  there  were 
for  the  friends  of  the  family  capacious  couches  with  thin 
white  arms,  and  for  strangers  easy-chairs  and  ordinary 
chairs. 

This  floor  was  Madame  "Waldor's  special  domain,  and 
there  she  exercised  her  vice-royalty. 

We  say  her  vice-royalty,  because  although  her  father 
had  abandoned  that  salon  to  her,  she  was  in  reality  only 
vice-queen  there.  As  soon  as  Monsieur  de  Villenave 
entered  he  resumed  his  sovereignty,  and  thenceforth  the 
reins  of  the  conversation  were  in  his  hands. 


A   PASTEL   BY  LATOUR.  15 

There  was  something  despotic  in  Monsieur  de  Ville- 
nave's  character,  displayed  in  his  intercourse  with  strangers 
as  well  as  with  his  family.  You  felt,  on  entering  his 
house,  that  you  belonged  to  the  man  who  had  seen  so 
much,  studied  so  much,  who,  in  a  word,  knew  so  much. 
That  despotism,  tempered  as  it  was  by  the  courtesy  of  the 
master  of  the  house,  nevertheless,  weighed  oppressively 
upon  the  company  as  a  whole.  Perhaps  the  conversation 
was  more  skilfully  guided,  as  they  used  to  say,  when  Mon- 
sieur de  Villenave  was  present,  but  it  certainly  was  less  free, 
less  amusing,  less  clever,  than  when  he  was  not  there. 

It  was  just  the  opposite  with  Nodier's  salon.  The  more 
Nodier  was  at  home  the  more  at  home  every  one  else  felt. 

Luckily  Monsieur  de  Villenave  rarely  came  down  to 
the  salon.  He  passed  most  of  his  time  in  his  own  quar- 
ters, on  the  second  floor,  and  on  ordinary  days  did  not 
appear  until  dinner ;  and  after  dinner,  when  he  had 
talked  for  a  moment,  when  he  had  moralized  a  little  with 
his  son,  and  scolded  his  wife  a  little,  he  stretched  himself 
out  in  his  arm-chair,  closed  his  eyes  while  his  daughter 
put  his  hair  in  curl-papers,  and  then  went  up  to  his  own 
apartments  again. 

That  quarter  of  an  hour  during  which  the  teeth  of  the 
comb  scratched  his  head  gently,  was  the  daily  quarter  of 
an  hour  of  beatitude  in  which  Monsieur  de  Villenave 
allowed  himself  to  indulge. 

But  why  those  curl-papers  1  the  reader  will  ask. 

In  the  first  place,  perhaps  they  were  only  an  excuse  for 
having  his  head  scratched.  In  the  second  place.  Monsieur 
de  Villenave  was,  as  we  have  said,  a  fine  old  man  who 
must  once  have  been  a  fine  young  man,  and  his  face  with 
its  strongly  marked  features  was  superbly  framed  in  those 
waves  of  white  hair  which  brought  boldly  in  relief  the 
brilliancy  of  his  great  black  eyes. 


16  MONSIEUR  DE  CHAUVELIN'S  WILL. 

In  fact,  we  must  admit  that  Monsieur  de  Villenave, 
although  a  student,  was  inclined  to  be  coquettish,  but 
coquettish  with  his  head,  nothing  more. 

In  other  respects  his  appearance  mattered  little  to  him. 
Whether  his  coat  was  blue  or  black,  whether  his  trousers 
were  full  or  tight,  whether  the  toe  of  his  boot  was  round 
or  square,  all  such  questions  concerned  his  tailor  and  his 
boot-maker,  or  rather  his  daughter,  who  attended  to  all 
those  details. 

If  his  hair  was  well  dressed  that  was  enough  for  him. 

When  his  daughter  had  put  on  his  curl-papers  —  an 
operation  which  was  performed  invariably  between  eight 
and  nine  o'clock  at  night  —  Monsieur  de  Villenave  took 
his  candlestick  and  went  upstairs. 

It  is  Monsieur  de  Villenave  in  his  own  sanctum,  at 
home  as  the  English  say,  whom  we  propose  to  try  to  de- 
scribe, with  little  hope  of  success. 

The  second  floor  was  divided  into  vastly  more  compart- 
ments than  the  first ;  it  consisted  of  a  landing  adorned 
with  plaster  busts,  an  anteroom,  and  four  other  rooms. 

We  will  not  characterize  those  rooms  as  salon,  bed- 
room, dressing-room,  and  study.  Little  Monsieur  de 
Villenave  eared  for  all  those  superfluities  !  No  :  there 
were  five  rooms  for  books  and  boxes,  —  that  is  the  whole 
story. 

Those  five  rooms  contained  somie  forty  thousand 
volumes  and  four  thousand  boxes. 

The  anteroom  in  itself  formed  an  immense  library. 
It  had  two  exits  :  the  one  on  the  right  led  into  Monsieur 
de  Villenave's  bedroom,  which  bedroom  itself  opened, 
through  a  corridor  by  the  alcove,  into  a  large  closet 
lighted  by  inside  windows  ;  the  one  on  the  right  opened 
into  a  large  room,  which,  in  turn,  opened  into  a  smaller 
one. 


A  PASTEL   BY  LATOUR.  17 

This  large  room  which  opened  into  the  smaller  one  not 
only  had,  as  did  its  neighbor,  its  four  walls  covered  with 
bookcases  filled  with  books  and  supported  by  foundations 
of  boxes,  but  a  very  ingenious  structure  had  been  set  up 
in  the  middle  of  each  of  the  two  rooms,  similar  to  the 
affair  sometimes  placed  in  the  centre  of  a  salon  so  that 
people  can  sit  all  around  it.  Thanks  to  that  structure 
the  centre  of  the  room,  forming  a  library  within  a 
library,  left  free  only  a  quadrangular  space  in  which  not 
more  than  one  person  could  circulate  freely.  A  second 
person  would  have  impeded  the  circulation ;  and  so  it 
rarely  happened  that  Monsieur  de  Villenave  admitted 
anybody,  even  an  intimate  friend,  to  that  sanctum 
sanctorum. 

A  few  privileged  ones  may  have  put  their  heads  in  at 
the  doors,  and,  through  the  learned  dust  that  floated  con- 
stantly in  luminous  atoms  in  the  infrequent  sunbeams 
which  found  their  way  into  that  tabernacle,  have  descried 
the  bibliographic  mysteries  of  Monsieur  de  Villenave,  as 
Claudius,  by  virtue  of  his  feminine  disguise,  was  en- 
abled to  surprise  some  of  the  mysteries  of  the  kindly 
goddess  Isis  from  the  atrium  of  her  temple. 

That  was  where  the  autographs  were  :  the  epoch  of 
Louis  XIV.  alone  filled  five  hundred  volumes. 

There  too  were  the  papers  of  Louis  XVI.,  the  corre- 
spondence of  Malesherbes,  four  hundred  autographs  of 
Voltaire,  two  hundred  of  Rousseau.  There  were  the 
genealogies  of  all  the  noble  families  of  France,  with  their 
alliances  and  their  proofs  of  nobility.  There  were  the 
drawings  of  Raphael,  Jules  Romain,  Leonardo  da  Vinci, 
Andrea  del  Sarto,  Lebrun,  Lesueur,  David,  and  Lethi^re ; 
the  collections  of  minerals  too,  rare  books  on  plants,  and 
unique  manuscripts. 

There,  in  short,  was  the  labor  of  fifty  years,  engrossed 
2 


18"  MONSIEUR  DE  CHAUVELIN'S  WILL. 

day  after  day  by  a  single  thought,  absorbed  hour  after 
hour  by  a  single  passion,  —  the  passion,  at  once  so  ardent 
and  so  gentle,  of  the  collector,  wherein  the  collector  puts 
forth  all  his  intelligence,  and  upon  which  his  pleasure,  his 
happiness,  his  very  life  depend. 

Those  two  rooms  were  the  precious  ones.  Certainly 
Monsieur  de  Villenave,  who,  many  times,  had  almost 
given  his  life  for  nothing,  would  not  have  parted  with 
the  contents  of  those  two  rooms  for  a  hundred  thousand 
crowns. 

There  remained  the  bedroom  and  the  dark  room, 
situated  •  at  the  right  of  the  anteroom  and  extending 
back  parallel  to  the  two  we  have  described. 

The  first  of  the  two  was  Monsieur  de  Villenave's  bed- 
room, in  which  the  bed  was  certainly  the  least  important 
article,  being  buried  in  a  recess  closed  by  two  doors  in 
the  wainscoting. 

That  was  the  room  in  which  Monsieur  de  Villenave 
received. 

If  it  were  absolutely  necessary,  you  could  walk  there  ; 
likewise  if  it  were  absolutely  necessary,  you  could  sit 
down. 

This  is  the  way  in  which  it  was  possible  to  sit  down, 
and  these  the  circumstances  under  which  it  became 
possible  to  walk. 

The  old  servant  —  I  have  forgotten  her  name  —  would 
partly  open  Monsieur  de  Villenave's  door  and  announce 
a  visitor. 

The  opening  of  the  door  always  surprised  Monsieur  de 
Villenave  in  the  midst  of  a  classification,  a  fit  of  musing, 
or  a  nap. 

"  "Well !  what  is  it,  Frangoise  ? "  —  Let  us  suppose  that 
her  name  was  Fran^oise.  —  "  Great  heaven  !  can't  I  be 
left  in  peace  for  an  instant  1 " 


A  PASTEL   BY  LATOUR.  19 

"  Dame  !  monsieur,"  Frangoise  would  reply,  "  I  had  to 
come." 

"Well,  tell  me  quickly:  what  do  you  want  of  me? 
How  is  it  that  you  always  come  just  at  the  moment  when 
I  am  the  busiest  ?  —  Well ! " 

And  Monsieur  de  Villenave  would  raise  his  great  eyes 
heavenward  with  a  despairing  expression,  fold  his  hands 
and  heave  a  sigh  of  resignation. 

Frangoise  was  used  to  the  stage-setting;  she  would 
allow  Monsieur  de  Villenave  to  go  through,  with  his 
pantomime  and  his  asides.     And  when  he  had  finished, — 

"  Monsieur,"  she  would  say,  "  Monsieur  So-and-so  has 
come  to  make  you  a  little  call." 

"  I  am  not  at  home  ;  go." 

Frangoise  would  open  the  door  slowly ;  she  knew 
what  was  coming. 

"  Wait,  Fran^oise,"  Monsieur  de  Villenave  would  call 
to  her. 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

And  she  would  open  the  door  again. 

"  You  say  that  it 's  Monsieur  So-and-so,  Frangoise  ? " 

"Yes,  monsieur." 

"  Oh,  well !  let  him  come  in,  and,  if  he  stays  too  long, 
you  can  come  and  tell  me  that  some  one  wants  me.  Go, 
Fran^oise." 

Frangoise  would  close  the  door. 

"  Oh !  mon  Dieu  !  mon  Dieu  !  would  any  one  believe 
it  %  "  Monsieur  de  Villenave  would  murmur.  "  I 
never  disturb  anybody,  and  yet  somebody  must  needs 
disturb  me  constantly." 

Franqoise  would  open  the  door  once  more  to  admit 
the  visitor. 

"Ah!  good  morning,  my  friend,"  Monsieur  de 
Villenave   would    say.     "  Glad    to  see   you ;  come  in, 


20  MONSIEUK   DE  CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

come  in.  It 's  a  long  while  since  we  've  seen  yon. 
Pray  sit  down." 

"  On  what  1  "  the  visitor  would  ask. 

"  Why ,  on  whatever  you  choose ,  pardieu  /  On  the 
couch. " 

"  I  would  gladly  do  so,  but " —  Monsieur  de  Ville- 
nave  would  glance  at  the  couch. 

"Ah!  yes,  true.  It 's  covered  with  hooks,"  he  would 
say.     "  Oh ,  well !     Move  up  an  easy-chair. " 

"  It  would  give  me  great  pleasure,  but  —  " 

Monsieur  de  Villenave  would  pass  his  easy-chairs  in 
review. 

"True,"  he  would  say,  "But  what  can  I  do,  my 
dear  fellow?  I  don't  know  where  to  put  my  books. 
Take  a  common  chair. " 

"  I  would  ask  nothing  better,  but  —  " 

"  But  what  ?     Are  you  in  a  hurry  1  " 

"No,  but  I  don't  see  that  there  are  any  more  common 
chairs  vacant  than  arm-chairs." 

"  It 's  incredible,"  Monsieur  de  Villenave  would  say, 
throwing  up  his  arms.     "  It 's  incredible !     Wait !  " 

He  would  leave  his  seat,  groaning  inwardly,  care- 
fully lift  from  a  chair  the  books  that  rendered  it  use- 
less, deposit  the  books  on  the  floor  where  they  added 
another  molehill  to  the  twenty  or  thirty  similar  ones 
scattered  over  the  floor,  and  move  the  chair  beside  his 
own  easy-chair,  that  is  to  say,  to  the  corner  of  the 
hearth. 

I  have  told  you  under  what  circumstances  one  could 
sit  down  in  that  room.  I  will  proceed  to  tell  under 
what  circumstances  you  could  walk  about  there. 

It  sometimes  happened  that  just  as  the  visitor  entered, 
and  after  the  indispensable  preamble  we  have  repeated , 
—  it  sometimes  happened,  we  say,  that,  by  a  double 


A  PASTEL   BY   LATOUE.  21 

combination  of  chances,  the  door  into  the  alcove  and 
the  door  of  the  corridor  leading  to  the  closet  behind 
the  alcove  were  both  open.  At  such  times  the  visitor 
could  see  in  the  alcove  a  pastel  representing  a  young 
and  pretty  woman  holding  a  letter  in  her  hand,  the 
picture  being  lighted  by  the  light  from  the  window  in 
the  corridor. 

Thereupon,  if  the  visitor  had  any  conception  of  art, 
—  and  it  rarely  happened  that  they  who  called  on 
Monsieur  de  Villenave  were  not  artists  in  some  direc- 
tion, —  he  would  exclaim,  — 

"  Oh,  monsieur  !  what  a  beautiful  pastel !  " 

And  he  would  start  to  go  from  the  hearth  to  the 
alcove. 

"Wait!"  Monsieur  de  Villenave  would  exclaim, 
«  wait !  " 

Indeed,  you  could  see  that  two  or  three  molehills  of 
books,  toppling  against  each  other,  formed  a  sort  of 
counterscarp  of  curious  shape,  which  it  was  necessary 
to  cross  before  reaching  the  alcove. 

Thereupon  Monsieur  de  Villenave  would  rise  and 
lead  the  way,  and,  as  a  skilful  miner  opens  a  trench,  he 
would  open  through  the  lines  of  typography  a  tunnel 
which  made  it  possible  to  reach  a  point  in  front  of  the 
pastel,  which  itself  faced  the  bed. 

Having  reached  that  point,  the  visitor  would 
repeat, — 

"  Oh!  what  a  beautiful  pastel !  " 

"Yes,"  Monsieur  de  Villenave  would  reply,  with 
the  air  of  the  ancient  court  which  I  have  never  noticed 
in  any  one  but  him  and  two  or  three  old  men  of  fashion 
like  him,  "  yes,  it 's  a  pastel  by  Latour.  It  represents 
an  old  friend  of  mine,  who  is  no  longer  young;  for, 
as  well  as  I  can  remember,  when  I  knew  her  in  1784, 


22  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

she  was  five  or  six  years  older  than  I.     We  have  never 

met  since  1802,  but  that  does  not  prevent  our  writing 
to  each  other  every  week  and  receiving  our  weekly 
letters  with  equal  pleasure.  Yes,  you  are  right,  it  is  a 
charming  pastel,  but  the  original  was  much  more 
charming.     Ah !  " 

And  a  ray  of  youth,  as  soft  as  a  reflection  of  the  sun, 
would  pass  over  the  handsome  old  man's  beaming  face, 
making  him  look  forty  years  younger. 

And  very  often,  in  the  last-mentioned  case,  FranQoise 
would  have  no  need  to  make  the  false  announcement 
that  her  master  was  wanted,  for,  if  the  visitor  had  any 
sense  of  delicacy,  he  would  very  soon  leave  Monsieur 
de  Villenave  absorbed  in  the  reverie  to  which  the  sight 
of  that  lovely  pastel  of  Latour  had  given  birth. 


THE  LETTEK.  23 


III. 


THE  LETTEB. 


Now  ho\f  had  Monsieur  de  Villenave  collected  that 
fine  library  ? 

How  had  he  made  that  collection  of  autographs  with- 
out parallel  in  the  world  of  collectors  1 

With  the  labor  of  his  whole  life.  In  the  first  place 
Monsieur  de  Villenave  had  never  burned  or  destroyed 
a  letter  or  a  paper. 

Notices  of  meetings  of  the  learned  societies,  invita- 
tions to  weddings,  notices  of  funerals,  —  he  had  kept 
them  all,  classified  them  all,  and  each  had  its  place. 
He  possessed  a  collection  of  every  imaginable  thing, 
even  of  the  volumes  which  had  been  snatched  half- 
burned  from  the  flames  in  the  courtyard  of  the  Bastille 
on  the  14th  of  July. 

Two  men  were  constantly  employed  hunting  for 
autographs  for  Monsieur  de  Villenave.  One  was  a  man 
named  Fontaine,  whom  I  knew,  and  who  was  himself 
the  author  of  a  book  -entitled  "  Le  Manuel  des  Auto- 
graphes."  The  other  was  a  clerk  in  the  Ministry  of 
War.  All  the  grocers  in  Paris  were  familiar  with 
those  two  indefatigable  visitors,  and  put  aside  for  them 
all  the  papers  they  bought.  They  would  make  a 
selection  from  the  papers,  and  buy  them  at  fifteen  sous 
the  pound,  Monsieur  de  Villenave  paying  them  thirty 
sous. 

Sometimes  too  Monsieur  de  Villenave  would  make 
an  expedition  on  his  own  account.     There  was   not  a 


24  MONSIEUB   DE  CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

grocer  in  Paris  who  did  not  know  him,  and  who,  when 
he  saw  him  coming,  did  not  get  together  the  material 
for  hags  and  horns  of  plenty  to  submit  it  to  his  learned 
investigation. 

It  goes  without  saying  that,  on  the  days  when  he 
went  out  for  autographs,  Monsieur  de  Villenave  went 
out  also  for  hooks.  The  indefatigable  bibliophile  would 
follow  the  line  of  the  quays,  and  there,  both  his  hands 
in  his  trousers'  pockets,  his  tall  body  bent  forward,  his 
fine  face  lighted  up  by  the  longing  for  a  lucky  find, 
he  would  gaze  eagerly  into  the  depths  of  the  show- 
windows,  in  quest  of  the  unknown  treasure.  He 
would  turn  the  leaves  over  for  an  instant,  and  when 
the  book  proved  to  be  the  one  he  had  sighed  for,  when 
the  edition  was  the  one  he  was  in  search  of,  the  book 
would  leave  the  dealer's  stall,  — not  to  take  its  place  in 
Monsieur  de  Villenave's  library.  In  Monsieur  de 
Villenave's  library  there  was  no  room,  and  had  been 
none  for  a  long  while,  and  it  was  necessary  to  make 
room  by  exchanging  books  for  drawings  or  autographs. 
No,  the  book  would  take  its  place  in  the  garret,  which 
was  divided  into  three  compartments:  one  for  octavos 
at  the  left,  one  for  quartos  at  the  right,  one  for  folios  in 
the  centre. 

There  was  the  chaos  out  of  which  Monsieur  de 
Villenave  proposed  some  day  to  make  a  new  world, 
something  like  an  Australia  or  a  New  Zealand. 

Meanwhile  they  lay  on  the  ground,  piled  one  upon 
another,  in  semi-darkness. 

That  garret  was  the  limbo  where  the  souls  were 
confined  whom  God  sends  neither  to  heaven  nor  to  hell, 
because  he  has  designs  upon  them. 

One  day,  without  any  apparent  cause,  the  poor  house 
trembled  to  its  foundations,  groaned,  and  cracked.     The 


THE  LETTER.  25 

terrified  occupants  thought  that  there  had  been  an 
earthquake  and  rushed  into  the  garden. 

Everything  was  peaceful,  in  earth  and  sky.  The 
fountain  continued  to  play  at  the  corner  of  the  street. 
A  bird  was  singing  in  the  highest  branches  of  the 
tallest  tree. 

The  disaster  was  only  partial.  It  proceeded  from 
some  secret,  mysterious,  unknown  cause. 

They  sent  for  the  architect. 

The  architect  examined  the  house,  sounded  the 
walls,  asked  many  questions,  and  ended  by  declaring 
that  the  accident  could  have  had  no  other  cause  than 
an  overstrain. 

Accordingly  he  asked  leave  to  inspect  the  garret. 

But  that  request  was  met  with  vigorous  opposition  on 
the  part  of  Monsieur  de  Villenave. 

What  was  the  explanation  of  that  opposition,  which 
yielded  at  last  in  face  of  the  architect's  firmness? 

It  was  that  Monsieur  de  Villenave  felt  that  his 
hidden  treasure,  the  more  precious  to  him  in  that  he 
was  almost  unacquainted  with  it,  was  exposed  to  great 
risk  by  that  visit. 

Indeed,  in  the  middle  chamber  alone  they  found 
twelve  hundred  folios  weighing  almost  eight  thousand 
pounds. 

Alas  !  he  had  no  choice  but  to  sell  those  twelve 
hundred  folios,  which  had  made  the  house  sag,  and 
which  threatened  to  pull  it  down. 

That  painful  operation  took  place  in  1822.  And  in 
1826,  when  I  first  knew  Monsieur  de  Villenave,  he 
had  not  recovered  from  that  blow,  and  more  than  one 
sigh,  of  which  his  family  knew  neither  the  cause  nor 
the  purpose,  went  in  pursuit  of  those  dear  folios,  col- 
lected by  him  with  such  infinite  pains,  and  now,  like 


26  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

children  driven  from  the  paternal  roof,  wandering  about, 
orphaned,  and  dispersed  over  the  face  of  the  earth. 

I  have  said  how  kind  and  sweet  and  hospitable  the 
house  on  Rue  de  Vaugirard  was  to  me :  on  the  part  of 
Madame  de  Villenave,  because  she  was  naturally  affec- 
tionate; on  the  part  of  Madame  de  Waldor,  because, 
being  a  poet,  she  was  fond  of  poets;  on  the  part  of 
Theodore  de  Villenave,  because  we  were  of  the  same 
age,  and  both  at  the  age  when  one  feels  the  need  of 
giving  away  a  portion  of  his  heart  and  of  receiving  a 
portion  of  the  hearts  of  others. 

Lastly,  on  the  part  of  Monsieur  de  Villenave, 
because,  although  I  was  not  a  collector  of  autographs, 
I  possessed,  thanks  to  my  father's  military  portfolio, 
an  interesting  collection  of  them.  For,  as  my  father 
held  high  rank  in  the  army  from  1791  to  1800,  having 
thrice  been  general-in-chief,  he  had  been  in  corre- 
spondence' with  all  those  who  had  played  prominent 
parts  during  those  years. 

The  most  interesting  autographs  in  that  correspond- 
ence were  those  of  General  Buonaparte.  Napoleon  did 
not  long  retain  that  Italianized  name.  Three  months 
after  the  13th  Vend^miaire  he  adopted  the  French 
form,  and  signed  himself  Bonaparte.  My  father  had 
received  during  that  brief  period  five  or  six  letters  from 
the  young  general  of  the  interior.  That  was  the  title 
he  assumed  after  the  13th  Vend^miaire. 

I  gave  Monsieur  de  Villenave  one  of  those  autographs 
flanked  by  one  of  Saint-Georges,  and  one  of  the 
Mar^chal  de  Richelieu;  and,  by  virtue  of  that  sacrifice, 
which  was  a  pleasure  to  me,  I  was  admitted  to  the 
privileges  of  the  second  floor. 

Little  by  little  I  became  sufficiently  intimate  in  the 
house  for  FranQoise  to  cease  announcing  me  to  Monsieur 


THE   LETTEK.  27 

de  Villenave.  I  used  to  go  up  alone  to  the  second 
floor.  I  would  knock  at  his  bedroom  door,  open  at 
the  words,  "Come  in!"  and  was  almost  always  well 
received. 

'  I  say  almost  always,  because  great  passions  have  their 
hours  of  tempest.  Suppose  a  collector  of  autographs, 
who  has  long  coveted  a  precious  signature,  —  a  signature 
of  Robespierre,  for  instance,  who  left  only  three  or 
four;  of  Moliere,  who  left  only  one  or  two;  of  Shake- 
speare, who,  I  believe,  left  none  at  all;  and  suppose 
that,  just  as  he  has  his  hand  on  that  unique  or  almost 
unique  signature,  it  eludes  our  collector's  grasp  by 
some  accident  or  other.      Naturally  he  is  in  despair. 

Enter  his  room  at  such  a  moment,  though  you  be 
his  father,  his  brother,  or  an  angel,  and  you  will  see 
how  you  will  be  received;  unless,  by  the  way,  being  an 
angel,  you  exert  your  divine  power  to  produce  the  signa- 
ture that  had  no  existence,  or  to  duplicate  the  signature 
of  which  there  is  but  one  known  example. 

Such  were  the  exceptional  circumstances  under  which 
I  was  ungraciously  received  by  Monsieur  de  Villenave. 
Under  any  other  circumstances  I  was  sure  of  finding  a 
pleasant  face,  a  ready  mind,  an  obliging  memory,  even 
during  the  week. 

I  say  "during  the  week,"  because  Sunday  was  set 
aside  for  scientific  visitors  at  Monsieur  de  Villenave's. 

All  the  foreign  bibliophiles  and  cosmopolitan  col- 
lectors of  autographs  who  came  to  Paris  never  failed  to 
pay  a  visit  to  Monsieur  de  Villenave,  as  vassals  go  to 
do  homage  to  their  sovereign. 

Sunday  was  the  day  for  exchanges.  By  means  of 
those  exchanges,  Monsieur  de  Villenave  completed  his 
foreign  collections,  for  which  his  grocers  were  insuffi' 
cient,  abandoning  to  the  German,  English,  or  American 


28  MONSIEUR   DE   CHAUVELIN'S  WILL. 

collectors  some  parings  of  his  magnificent  French 
material. 

So  I  was  admitted  to  the  house.  I  was  received 
first  on  the  first  floor,  and  in  due  time  on  the  second. 
I  had  obtained  the  right  of  entry  there  every  Sunday ; 
and  lastly,  I  had  been  granted  the  privilege  of  going 
there  whenever  I  chose,  a  privilege  which  I  shared 
with  two  or  three  others  at  most. 

Now,  on  a  certain  week  day,  a  Tuesday  I  think,  I 
called  upon  Monsieur  de  Villenave  to  ask  leave  to  study 
an  autograph  of  Christine,  —  for  I  like,  as  you  know, 
to  form  an  opinion  of  the  character  of  my  personages 
from  the  style  of  their  handwriting;  one  day,  I  say, 
I  called  upon  that  errand,  about  five  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon ,  and  rang  at  the  door.  I  asked  for  Monsieur 
de  Villenave,  and  was  admitted. 

As  I  was  passing  through  the  door,  FranQoise  called 
me. 

"  What  is  it,  FranQoise  1  "  I  asked. 

"  Is  monsieur  going  to  call  on  the  ladies  or  on 
monsieur  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  up  to  monsieur's  room,  Franqoise." 

"  Very  well,  if  monsieur  was  very  good  he  would 
spare  my  poor  legs  two  flights  of  stairs  and  give  Mon- 
sieur de  Villenave  this  letter,  which  has  just  arrived 
for  him." 

"  Willingly,  Franqoise." 

Fran^oise  gave  me  the  letter,  and  I  went  upstairs. 

When  I  reached  the  door  I  knocked  as  usual,  but 
there  was  no  reply. 

I  knocked  a  little  louder. 

Still  no  reply. 

I  knocked  a  third  time,  and  that  time  with  some 
uneasiness,  for  the  key  was  in  the  door,  and  the  presence 


THE  LETTER.  29 

of  the  key  in  the  door  invariably  indicated  the  presence 
of  Monsieur  de  Villenave  in  his  room. 

I  ventured,  therefore,  to  open  the  door,  and  I  saw 
Monsieur  de  Villenave  drowsing  in  his  easy-chair. 

At  the  noise  I  made,  or  perhaps  because  of  the  cur- 
rent of  air  that  entered  with  me  and  disturbed  certain 
magnetic  currents,  Monsieur  de  Villenave  gave  a  sort 
of  cry. 

"  Oh !  I  beg  your  pardon, "  I  said.  "  I  beg  your  pardon 
a  thousand  times.     I  was  careless ;  I  disturbed  you. " 

"Who  are  you  1     What  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  I  am  Alexandre  Dumas. " 

"Ah!" 

And  Monsieur  de  Villenave  breathed  again. 

"  Really,  I  am  in  despair,"  I  added,  "  and  I  will  go.' 

"No,"  said  Monsieur  de  Villenave,  heaving  a  sigh ^ 
and  passing  his  hand  across  his  forehead,  "no,  come  in." 

I  went  in. 

"Take  a  seat." 

By  some  chance  a  chair  was  vacant.     I  took  it. 

"  How  strange  it  is!  "  he  said.  "  As  you  saw,  I  wag 
dozing.  The  twilight  has  come.  Meanwhile,  my 
fire  has  gone  out.  You  waked  me.  I  found  myself  in 
an  unlighted  room,  and  could  not  explain  the  sound 
that  had  disturbed  my  sleep.  Doubtless  it  was  the  air 
from  the  door  blowing  on  my  face.  But  it  seemed  to 
me  that  I  saw  a  great  white  cloth  floating  in  the  air, 
something  like  a  shroud.  How  strange  it  is,  is  it 
not  1 "  continued  Monsieur  de  Villenave ,  with  the 
shuddering  movement  of  the  whole  body  which  indi- 
cates that  one  is  cold.  "But  it  was  you,  I  am  happy 
to  say." 

"  You  say  that  to  set  my  mind  at  rest  concerning  my 
awkwardness. " 


'30  MONSIEUR   DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

-     "  No,  really  not.     I  am  very  glad  to  see  you.     What 
have  you  there  1  " 

"Ah!  I   beg  your  pardon,   I   forgot.     A  letter  for 

you." 

"  So !  an  autograph  ?     Whose  is  it  1  " 

**  No,  it 's  not  an  autograph;  it 's  simply  a  letter,  at 
least  so  I  imagine." 

"Oh!  yes,  a  letter!" 

"  A  letter  that  came  by  post  and  was  given  me  by 
Franqoise  to  bring  to  you.     Here  it  is." 

"  Thanks.  Just  put  out  your  hand,  please ,  and  give 
me  —  " 

"What?" 

"A  match.  Really,  I  am  still  as  dull  and  confused 
as  possible.  If  I  were  superstitious,  I  should  believe 
something  was  going  to  happen." 

He  took  the  match  I  handed  him  and  lighted  it  in 
the  hot  ashes  on  the  hearth. 

As  it  burned,  the  room  became  brighter  and  made  it 
possible  to  distinguish  the  different  objects. 

"  Mon  Dieu  /  "  I  cried  suddenly. 

"  What 's  the  matter  1  "  Monsieur  de  Villenave  asked, 
as  he  lighted  the  candle. 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  your  lovely  pastel !  What  in  heaven's 
name  has  happened  to  it  %  " 

"  You  see,"  replied  Monsieur  de  Villenave,  sadly,  "  I 
have  put  it  there  by  the  chimney.  I  am  expecting  the 
picture -framer  and  the  glazier." 

"  True,  the  frame  is  broken,  and  the  glass  shattered 
into  a  thousand  pieces. " 

"  Yes,"  said  Monsieur  de  Villenave,  looking  at  the 
portrait  with  a  melancholy  air,  and  forgetting  his  letter. 
"  Yes,  it 's  an  incomprehensible  thing." 

"  Why,  did  some  accident  happen  to  it  I  " 


THE   LETTER.  31 

"  Day  before  yesterday  I  had  worked  all  the  evening. 
It  was  about  a  quarter  to  twelve.  I  went  to  bed, 
placed  my  candle  on  my  night  table,  and  was  preparing 
to  look  over  the  proofs  of  a  small  compact  edition  of 
my  Ovid,  when  I  chanced  to  cast  my  eyes  on  my  poor 
friend's  portrait.  I  nodded  a  good-night  to  her  as 
usual.  The  wind  was  blowing  gently  through  the 
window,  which  had  been  left  open,  and  it  made  the 
flame  of  my  candle  flicker  so  that  it  seemed  to  me  that 
the  portrait  answered  good-night,  with  a  nod  like  my 
own.  You  will  understand  that  I  treated  the  vision  as 
mere  folly,  but  I  don't  know  how  it  happened.  My 
mind  was  filled  with  the  idea,  and  I  could  not  take  my 
eyes  off  the  picture.  Dame!  my  friend,  that  pastel,  as 
you  know,  dates  back  to  my  earliest  youth.  It  recalls 
all  sorts  of  memories.  Imagine  me,  therefore,  swim- 
ming in  a  full  flood  of  reminiscences  of  the  past  twenty- 
five  years.  I  spoke  to  my  portrait.  My  memory 
answered  for  it,  and,  although  it  was  my  memory  that 
answered,  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  drawing  moved  its 
lips.  It  seemed  to  me  that  its  colors  faded.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  its  features  assumed  a  sad  expression.  At 
that  moment  the  clock  on  the  Carmelite  church  began 
to  strike  twelve.  At  the  lugubrious  sound  my  poor 
friend's  face  assumed  a  more  and  more  sorrowful  expres- 
sion.  The  wind  continued  to  blow.  At  the  last 
stroke  of  midnight  the  window  of  the  closet  blew  open 
violently.  I  heard  something  like  a  Availing  cry ,  and 
it  seemed  to  me  that  the  eyes  of  the  portrait  closed. 
The  nail  on  which  it  hung  broke.  The  portrait  fell, 
and  my  candle  went  out. 

"  I  rose  to  relight  it,  having  no  feeling  of  fear,  but 
deeply  impressed,  nevertheless.  As  ill-luck  would 
have  it,  I  could  not  find  a  match.     It  was  too  late  to 


S2  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIX's  WILL. 

call,  and  I  did  not  know  where  to  look  for  one.  I 
closed  the  window  of  the  closet  and  went  to  bed  with- 
out a  light. 

"  All  this  had  moved  and  saddened  me.  I  felt  an 
irresistible  longing  to  weep.  It  seemed  as  if  I  could 
hear  something  like  the  rustling  of  a  silk  dress  in  the 
room.  Several  times  I  said :  *  Is  there  any  one  here  ?  ' 
At  last  I  fell  asleep,  but  it  was  quite  late,  and  when  I 
woke  I  found  my  poor  picture  in  the  condition  in 
which  you  see  it." 

"  What  a  strange  thing !  "  I  said .  "  Have  you 
received  your  weekly  letter  1  " 

"What  letter?" 

"  The  one  that  the  original  of  the  portrait  always 
writes  you. " 

"  No,  and  that  is  what  worries  me.  That  is  why  I 
told  FranQoise  to  bring  or  send  up  without  delay  any 
letters  which  might  come  for  me. " 

"  Well ,  this  one  that  I  have  brought  you  —  " 

'*  It  is  n't  her  way  of  folding  her  letters." 

"Ah!" 

"  But  no  matter,  it 's  from  Angers." 

"  Did  she  live  at  Angers  ?  " 

"Yes.  Ah!  my  God!  sealed  with  black!  Poor, 
dear  friend,  can  anything  have  happened  to  her  ?  " 

And  Monsieur  de  Villenave  turned  pale  as  he  broke 
the  seal. 

At  the  first  words  he  read,  his  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

He  took  out  a  second  letter,  broken  off  at  the  fourth 
line,  which  was  enclosed  in  the  other. 

He  put  the  unfinished  letter  to  his  lips  and  handed 
me  the  other. 

"Read,"  he  said. 

I  read:  — 


THE   LETTER.  83 

"  Monsieur,  —  My  own  sorrow  is  increased  by  that  which 

you  will  feel  when  I  inform  you  that  Madame died  on 

Sunday  last  on  the  last  stroke  of  midnight. 

"  On  the  day  before,  while  she  was  writing  to  you,  she  was 
taken  ill  with  what  we  thought  at  first  was  a  slight  indispo- 
sition only,  but  she  grew  rapidly  worse  untU  she  died. 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  send  you,  incomplete  as  it  is,  the  letter 
she  had  begun  for  you.  That  letter  will  prove  to  you  that, 
down  to  the  moment  of  her  death,  her  feeling  for  you 
remained  the  same. 

"  I  am,  monsieur,  very  sadly,  as  you  can  believe,  but 
always  your  very  humble  servant, 

"Th^rese  Mirand." 

Monsieur  de  Villenave  followed  my  eyes  as  they 
read  the  letter. 

"  At  midnight!  "  he  said.  "  It  was  at  midnight,  you 
remember,  that  the  portrait  fell  to  the  floor  and  was 
shattered.  The  coincidence  extends  not  only  to  the 
day,   but  to  the  hour." 

"  Yes, "  I  replied.     "  That  is  so. " 

"  You  believe,  then  ?  "  cried  Monsieur  de  Villenave. 

"  Why,  of  course  I  believe." 

"  Oh,  then  come  here  some  day,  my  friend,  some  day 
when  I  am  a  little  less  disturbed,  won't  you,  and  I 
will  tell  you  something  much  stranger  than  that." 

"  Something  that  happened  to  you  1  " 

"  No,  but  something  that  I  saw. " 

"When  was  that?" 

"Oh,  a  long  time  ago.  It  was  in  1774,  when  I  was 
tutor  to  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin's  children." 

"  And  you  say  you  will  tell  it  to  me  1  " 

"  Yes,  I  will  tell  you  the  story.  Meanwhile,  you 
understand  —  " 

"  I  understand.     You  would  like  to  be  alone. " 

I  rose  and  prepared  to  go. 
3 


34  moNSiEUR  DE  chauvelin's  will. 

"By  the  way,"  said  Monsieur  de  Villenave,  "just 
tell  the  ladies,  as  you  go  by,  not  to  be  disturbed  about 
me.     I  shall  not  go  down  to  dinner." 

I  signified  that  the  errand  should  be  done. 

Thereupon  Monsieur  de  Villenave  twisted  his  chair 
around  on  one  of  its  hind  legs  until  he  faced  the  por- 
trait; and,  as  I  closed  the  door,  I  heard  him  mutter, — - 

"Poor  Sophie!" 

The  story  you  are  about  to  read  is  the  one  that 
Monsieur  de  Villenave  told  me  later. 


THE  KING'S   PHYSICIAN.  35 


IV. 

THE   king's   PHYSICIAN". 

On  the  25th  of  April,  1774,  King  Louis  XV.  was  in 
bed  in  the  Blue  Chamber  at  Versailles.  Beside  his 
bed,  on  a  low  cot,  his  physician  Lamartiniere  was 
sleeping. 

The  clock  in  the  principal  courtyard  of  the  chateau 
was  striking  live. 

Shadows  flitted  restlessly  about,  careful  not  to  dis- 
turb the  slumbers  of  the  prince  at  that  hour,  at  which, 
for  some  time  past,  Louis  XV. ,  worn  out  by  late  hours 
and  dissipation,  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  little 
rest,  purchased  by  the  misuse  of  insomnia,  and  by 
narcotics  when  that  proved  insufficient. 

The  king  was  no  longer  young.  He  was  entering 
his  sixty-fifth  year.  Having  drained  the  cup  of 
pleasure,  of  dissipation,  of  flattery  to  the  dregs,  there 
was  nothing  more  for  him  to  learn.     He  was  bored. 

The  fever  of  ennui  was  the  worst  of  his  diseases. 
Acute  under  Madame  de  Chateauroux,  it  had  become 
intermittent  under  Madame  de  Pompadour,  and  chronic 
under  Madame  du  Barry. 

They  who  have  nothing  left  to  learn  sometimes  have 
something  left  to  love.  That  is  a  sovereign  resource 
against  the  disease  by  which  Louis  XV.  was  attacked. 
Satiated  in  the  matter  of  individual  love  by  that  which 
he  had  inspired  in  a  whole  people,  and  which  had  been 
carried  to  the  point  of  frenzy,  that  habit  of  the  heart 


36  MONSIEUR  DE  CHAUVELIN's  WILL. 

had  seemed  to  him  too  commonplace  for  a  king  of  France 
to  indulge  in  it. 

Thus  Louis  XV.  had  been  beloved  by  his  people,  by 
his  wife,  and  by  his  mistresses;  but  Louis  XV.  had 
never  loved  any  one. 

There  also  remains  to  those  who  are  blase  another 
interesting  source  of  preoccupation,  —  suffering.  Apart 
from  the  two  or  three  sicknesses  he  had  had,  Louis  XV. 
had  never  suffered ;  and,  being  a  highly-favored  mortal , 
he  felt  no  other  warning  of  the  approach  of  old  age 
than  a  beginning  of  fatigue,  which  the  physicians  put 
forward  as  a  signal  for  him  to  change  his  ways. 

Sometimes,  at  those  famous  supper-parties  at  Choisy, 
at  which  the  tables  came  up,  all  laden,  through  the 
floor,  at  which  the  service  was  performed  by  pages  from 
the  petites  ecuries,  when  the  Comtesse  du  Barry  incited 
Louis  XV.  to  drink  bumper  upon  bumper,  the  Due 
d'Ayen  to  loud  laughter,  and  the  Marquis  de  Chauvelin 
to  epicurean  joviality,  Louis  XV.  observed  with  sur- 
prise that  his  hand  was  slow  to  raise  the  glass,  brim- 
ming with  the  sparkling  fluid  he  had  loved  so  much, 
that  his  brow  refused  to  contract  in  that  inextinguish- 
able laughter  which  Jeanne  Vaubernier's  sallies  had 
sometimes  caused  to  bloom  on  the  boundary  line  of  his 
ripening  years,  and  that  his  brain  remained  cold  and 
unmoved  by  the  seductive  pictures  of  that  blissful  life 
which  sovereign  power,  supreme  wealth,  and  robust 
health  afford. 

Louis  XV.  was  not  naturally  open  and  unreserved. 
He  concealed  his  joy  and  sadness  alike.  Perhaps,  by 
virtue  of  that  inward  absorption  of  his  sentiments,  he 
■would  have  been  a  great  politician,  if,  as  he  himself 
said,  he  had  not  lacked  time. 

As  soon  as  he  noticed  the  change  that  was  beginning 


THE   king's   physician.  3^ 

to  take  place  in  him,  instead  of  making  the  best  of  it 
and  inhaling  philosophically  the  first  breezes  of  old 
age,  which  wrinkle  the  forehead  and  silver  the  hair,  he 
drew  back  within  himself  and  watched. 

The  thing  that  makes  the  most  light-hearted  men 
melancholy  is  analysis  of  joy  or  suffering.  Analysis  is 
a  period  of  silence  interjected  between  laughter  and 
sobbing. 

Hitherto  the  courtiers  had  only  seen  that  the  king 
was  bored.  Now  they  saw  that  he  was  depressed.  He 
no  longer  laughed  at  Madame  du  Barry's  ribald  jests; 
he  no  longer  smiled  at  the  malicious  remarks  of  the 
Due  d'Ayen;  he  no  longer  enjoyed  the  friendly  caresses 
of  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin,  the  friend  of  his  heart,  the 
fidus  Achates  of  his  royal  escapades. 

Madame  du  Barry  was  loudest  in  her  complaints  of 
this  melancholy,  whose  most  noticeable  effect  was 
coldness  to  her. 

This  moral  change  caused  the  doctors  to  declare  that, 
although  the  king  was  not  yet  sick ,  he  certainly  would 
be  before  long. 

And  so,  on  the  15th  of  the  preceding  April,  Lamar- 
tiniere,  his  first  surgeon,  after  administering  to  the 
king  his  monthly  medicine,  ventured  to  make  certain 
suggestions  which  he  considered   of  grave   importance. 

"Sire,"  Lamartiniere  had  said  to  him,  "as  Your 
Majesty  has  ceased  to  drink,  as  Your  Majesty  has 
ceased  to  eat,  as  Your  Majesty  has  ceased  to  —  amuse 
yourself,  what  does  Your  Majesty  propose  to  do  ?  " 

*^  Dame !  my  dear  Lamartiniere,"  the  king  replied, 
**  whatever  seems  most  entertaining  to  me  outside  of 
the  things  you  have  mentioned," 

"  The  fact  is  that  I  do  not  know  much  of  anything 
new  to  suggest  to  Your   Majesty.     Your  Majesty  has 


38  MONSIEUR  DE  CHAUVELIN's  WILL. 

been  to  war,  Your  Majesty  has  tried  to  love  scholars 
and  artists,  Your  Majesty  has  loved  women  and  cham- 
pagne. Now,  when  one  has  tasted  glory,  flattery, 
love,  and  wine,  I  declare  to  Your  Majesty  that  I  seek 
in  vain  a  muscle,  a  chord,  a  nerve  centre  that  discloses 
the  existence  of  any  untried  aptitude  for  new  forms  of 
distraction. " 

"Aha!"  said  the  king.  "Do  you  really  think  so, 
Lamartini^re  1  " 

"  Remember,  sire,  that  Sardanapalus  was  a  very 
intelligent  king,  almost  as  intelligent  as  Your  Majesty, 
although  he  lived  something  like  twenty-eight  hundred 
years  before  you.  He  was  fond  of  life,  and  devoted 
much  thought  to  making  a  good  use  of  it.  I  think  I 
have  read  that  he  paid  the  most  careful  attention  to  the 
difierent  methods  of  exercising  the  body  and  the  mind 
in  the  search  for  little  known  pleasures.  Even  so,  no 
historian  has  ever  stated,  so  far  as  I  know,  that  he 
found  anything  more   than  you  have   found  yourself." 

"Indeed,  Lamartiniere. " 

**  I  except  champagne,  sire,  which  Sardanapalus  did 
not  know.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  naught  to  drink 
but  the  thick,  heavy,  heady  wines  of  Asia  Minor, 
those  liquid  flames  which  filter  through  the  pulp  of 
the  grapes  of  the  archipelago,  —  wines  whose  intoxica- 
tion is  a  frenzy,  while  that  caused  by  champagne  is 
only  folly." 

"True,  my  dear  Lamartiniere,  true.  Champagne  is 
a  pretty  little  wine,  and  I  have  been  very  fond  of  it. 
But  tell  me,  didn't  your  Sardanapalus  end  by  being 
burned  at  the  stake  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sire,  that  was  the  only  variety  of  pleasure 
that  he  had  never  tried.     He  kept  it  for  the  last." 

"  And  it  was  with  a  view  of  making  that  pleasure  as 


THE  king's   physician.  39 

intense   as  possible,  I  doubt  not,  that   he  burned  up 
his  palace,  his  wealth,  and  his  favorite  with  himself  1 " 

"  Yes,  sire. " 

"And  would  you  advise  me,  my  dear  Lamartini^re , 
to  burn  Versailles,  and  to  burn  myself  and  Madame  du 
Barry  at  the  same  time  1  " 

"No,  sire.  You  have  made  war;  you  have  seen 
conflagrations;  you  have  been  yourself  in  the  thick  of 
the  cannonade  at  Fontenoy.  Consequently  fire  would 
not  be  a  novel  form  of  entertainment  to  you.  Come, 
let  us  recapitulate  your  means  of  defence  against 
ennui." 

"  0  Lamartiniere,  I  am  almost  defenceless." 

"In  the  first  place,  you  have  your  friend.  Monsieur 
de  Chauvelin,  a  man  of  wit,  a  —  " 

*  Chauvelin  is  no  longer  a  man  of  wit,  my  dear 
fellow." 

«  Since  when  1  " 

"  Fardieu  !  since  I  have  been  bored. " 

"Bah!"  said  Lamartiniere.  "That's  as  if  you 
should  say  that  Madame  du  Barry  has  ceased  to  be 
beautiful  since  —  " 

"  Since  what?  "  said  the  king,  blushing  a  little. 

"Oh!  I  know  what  I  know,"  rejoined  the  surgeon 
brusquely. 

"Well,"  said  the  king  with  a  sigh,  "it  seems  to  be 
settled  that  I  am  going  to  be  sick." 

"  I  am  afraid  so,  sire." 

"Give  me  a  remedy,  then,  Lamartiniere,  a  remedy. 
Let  us  get  the  start  of  the  disease. " 

"  Rest,  sire.     I  know  no  other." 

"Very  good!" 

"Diet." 

"Very  good!" 


'40  MONSIEUR   DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

"  Amusement. " 

"  I  stop  you  there,  Lamartini^re. " 

"Why  so?" 

"You  prescribe  amusement  and  you  don't  tell  me 
how  I  am  to  amuse  myself.  Very  good !  I  consider 
you  an  ignoramus,  an  ignorantissimuSy  my  friend  I 
Do  you  hear?  " 

"And  you  are  wrong,  sire.  It  is  your  fault,  not 
mine." 

"  How  so  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  hopeless  task  to  amuse  those  who  are  bored 
when  they  have  such  a  friend  as  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin 
and  such  a  mistress  as  Madame  du  Barry." 

There  was  a  pause ,  which  seemed  to  indicate  that  the 
king  acknowledged  that  what  Lamartiniere  had  said 
was  not  altogether  devoid  of  sense. 

Then  the  king  continued ,  — 

"Well,  Lamartiniere,  my  friend,  as  we  are  talking 
of  diseases,  let  us  reason  together.  You  say  that  I 
have  amused  myself  with  everything  in  this  world 
capable  of  furnishing  amusement,  do  you  not?" 

"  I  say  so,  and  it  is  so. " 

"With  war?" 

"  Pardieu  I  I  should  say  so,  when  you  have  won 
the  battle  of  Fontenoy !  " 

"  Yes,  and  it  was  a  diverting  spectacle  too,  —  men  in 
rags,  and  a  tract  four  leagues  long  and  one  league  wide 
soaked  with  blood ;  a  smell  of  the  shambles  to  do  your 
heart  good." 

"  And  the  glory,  too  !  " 

"But,  after  all,  did  I  win  the  battle?  Wasn't  it 
Monsieur  le  Marechal  de  Saxe  ?  Was  n't  it  Monsieur 
le  Due  de  Richelieu  ?  Was  n't  it  Pecquigny  more  than 
all  the  rest,  with  his  four  guns  ?  " 


THE   king's   physician.  41 

**  Never  mind.    Who  gets  all  the  credit  of  it  ?    You. " 

"  I  believe  you ;  and  so  that  is  the  reason  why  you 
imagine  that  I  must  love  glory.  Ah !  my  dear 
Lamartiniere,"  the  king  added,  heaving  a  sigh,  "  if  you 
knew  what  a  wretched  bed  I  slept  on  the  night  before 
Fontenoy !  " 

"  Oh,  well!  Let  us  leave  glory  out  of  the  question. 
If  you  don't  choose  to  acquire  it  yourself,  you  can  let 
the  painters,  poets,  and  historians  make  it  for  you." 

"Lamartiniere,  I  have  a  perfect  horror  of  all  those 
people,  who  are  either  pitiful  creatures,  duller  than 
my  lackeys,  or  giants  of  pride  too  tall  to  pass  under  my 
great-grandfather's  triumphal  arches.  That  Voltaire 
above  all.  Why,  did  not  the  knave  lay  his  hand  on 
my  shoulder  one  evening  and  call  me  Trajan  1  People 
tell  him  that  he  is  the  king  of  my  kingdom,  and  the 
puppy  believes  it.  So  I  don't  want  any  of  the  immor- 
tality those  people  could  give  me.  One  has  to  pay  too 
high  a  price  for  it  in  this  perishable  world,  and  per- 
haps in  the  other  too." 

"  In  that  case,  what  do  you  want,  sire  1     Tell  me." 

"  I  want  to  make  my  life  last  as  long  as  possible.  I 
want  to  have  in  my  life  the  greatest  possible  number 
of  things  I  love;  and  for  that  I  shall  not  apply  to 
poets  or  philosophers  or  warriors.  No,  Lamartiniere, 
except  God,  I  really  have  no  esteem  for  anybody  but 
the  doctors ,  —  when  they  are  good  ones ,  I  mean ,  of 
course." 

"  Parbleu  !  " 

"  So  speak  frankly,  my  dear  Lamartiniere." 

"Yes,  sire." 

"What  have  I  to  dread?" 

"Apoplexy." 

"Do  people  die  of  it?" 


42  MONSIEUR   DE  CHAUVELIN'S  WILL. 

"  Yes,  if  they  are  not  bled  in  time." 

"  Lamartiniere ,  you  must  not  leave  me  any  more." 

"  That  is  impossible,  sire.  I  have  my  other  patients." 

"  Indeed !  but  it  seems  to  me  that  my  health  is  a 
matter  of  as  much  interest  to  France  and  to  Europe  as 
that  of  all  your  patients  together.  A  bed  will  be  made 
up  for  you  beside  mine  every  night. " 

"Sire!" 

"  What  difference  does  it  make  to  you  whether  you 
sleep  here  or  elsewhere  ?  And  you  will  reassure  me  by 
your  mere  presence,  Lamartiniere,  and  you  will  frighten 
away  disease,  for  disease  knows  you  and  knows  that  it 
has  no  sturdier  foe  than  you. " 

That  is  why  Lamartiniere  was  lying  in  a  low  bed  in 
the  Blue  Chamber  at  Versailles  on  April  25,  1774, 
sleeping  soundly,  about  five  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
while  the  king  was  wide  awake. 

Louis  XV.,  who,  as  we  have  stated,  was  not  asleep, 
heaved  a  great  sigh;  but,  inasmuch  as  a  sigh  has  no  posi- 
tive meaning  except  that  which  the  sigher  gives  to  it, 
Lamartiniere,  who  was  snoring  instead  of  sighing, 
heard  it  as  he  snored,  but  paid,  or  rather  seemed  to  pay, 
no  attention  to  it. 

The  king,  seeing  that  his  surgeon  in  ordinary  was 
insensible  to  that  appeal,  leaned  over  the  edge  of  the 
bed,  and,  by  the  light  of  the  great  candle  burning  in 
the  marble  candlestick,  he  gazed  at  the  form  of  his 
watcher,  who  was  hidden  from  the  most  persistent  gaze 
by  the  thick,  soft  coverlid  that  reached  to  the  topknot 
of  his  nightcap. 

"  Ah !  "  said  the  king,  "  alas !  "  Lamartiniere  heard 
him;  but  as  an  interjection  may  sometimes  escape  a 
sleeping  man,  there  is  no  reason  why  it  should  wake 
another. 


THE  king's  physician.  43 

So  the  surgeon  continued  to  snore. 

**  How  lucky  he  is  to  be  able  to  sleep  like  that !  " 
muttered  Louis  XV.  "  What  material  creatures  these 
doctors  are!  " 

And  he  resigned  himself  to  wait  still  longer;  but, 
after  waiting  in  vain  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  he 
called,  — 

"  He !  Lamartini^re !  " 

"  What  is  it,  sire  1  "  growled  His  Majesty's  adviser. 

"  Oh!  my  poor  Lamartiniere  !  "  said  the  king,  groan- 
ing as  piteously  as  he  could. 

"Well!  what  is  it?" 

And  the  doctor,  still  grumbling  like  a  man  who  is 
sure  that  he  can  safely  presume  upon  his  position, 
slipped  out  of  bed. 

He  found  the  king  sitting  up  in  bed. 

"  Are  you  in  pain,  sire?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  think  so,  my  dear  Lamartiniere,"  His  Majesty 
replied. 

"  Oho!  you  are  slightly  excited." 

"Very  much  excited,  yes." 

"  At  what  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  idea." 

"  I  know,"  muttered  the  surgeon;  "it 's  fear." 

"  Feel  my  pulse,  Lamartiniere." 

«  That 's  Avhat  I  am  doing." 

"How  is  it?" 

"  It  marks  eighty-eight  pulsations  a  minute,  sire, 
and  that  is  a  good  many  in  an  old  man." 

"  In  an  old  man ,  Lamartiniere  1  " 

"To  be  sure." 

"  I  am  only  sixty-four,  and  at  sixty-four  a  man  *8 
not  old." 

"  He  is  no  longer  young,  certainly." 


44  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

"  Well ,  what  do  you  prescribe  ?  " 

"  First  of  all,  how  do  you  feel  ?  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  I  am  stifling  with  the  heat.  ** 

"  On  the  contrary,  you  are  cold." 

"  I  must  be  flushed,  am  I  not  1  " 

"Nonsense,  you  are  pale.  Let  me  give  you  some 
advice,   sire." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Try  to  go  to  sleep  again;  that  would  be  the  proper 
thing." 

"  I  am  no  longer  sleepy. " 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  excitement  1  " 

"  Dame  /  it  seems  to  me  that  you  ought  to  know, 
Lamartiniere,  or  else  it  is  hardly  worth  while  to  be  a 
doctor. " 

"  Have  you  had  a  bad  dream  1  " 

"Well,  yes,  I  have." 

"A  dream!"  cried  Lamartiniere,  throwing  up  his 
hands ;  "  a  dream  !  " 

"  Dame  /  "  rejoined  the  king.  "  There  are  such 
things  as  dreams." 

"  Very  good!  come,  tell  me  your  dream,  sire." 

"That's  one  of  the  things  that  isn't  told,  my 
friend." 

"  Why  so?     People  tell  everything." 

"  To  their  confessors,  yes." 

"  Then  send  me  for  your  confessor  at  once;  and  I  '11 
bring  my  lancet  too. " 

"  A  dream  is  sometimes  a  secret. " 

"  Yes,  and  sometimes  it 's  caused  by  remorse.  You 
are  right,  sire;  adieu." 

And  the  doctor  began  to  pull  on  his  stockings  and 
his  breeches. 

"Come,   come,  Lamartiniere,  don't    be   ^igry,    my 


THE  king's  physician.  45 

friend.  Well !  I  dreamed  —  I  dreamed  that  I  was 
being  carried  to  Saint-Denis." 

"  And  that  it  was  an  uncomfortable  carriage.  Bah ! 
when  you  take  that  trip,  you  won't  notice  the  carriage, 
sire. " 

"  How  can  you  joke  on  such  subjects  1  "  said  the 
king,  shuddering  from  head  to  foot.  "  No,  I  dreamed 
that  I  was  being  carried  to  Saint-Denis,  and  that  I 
was  confined  alive  in  the  velvet  lining  of  my  coffin." 

"  You  felt  uncomfortable  in  the  coffin  1  " 

"Yes,  a  little." 

"Vapors,  bile,  sluggish  digestion." 

"  Oh  !  I  did  n't  sup  yesterday." 

"  An  empty  stomach  then. " 

"  Do  you  think  so  1  " 

"  Ah !  now  I  think  of  it,  at  what  time  did  you  leave 
Madame  la  Comtesse  yesterday  1  " 

"  I  have  n't  seen  her  for  two  days." 

"You  are  sulking,  eh?     Bile,  you  see." 

"  No,  no  !  she  is  sulking  with  me.  I  promised  her 
something  that  I  have  n't  given  her." 

"  Give  her  that  something  quickly,  and  recover  your 
good  spirits." 

"  No,  I  am  drowned  in  melancholy." 

"  Ah  !  I  have  an  idea. " 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Breakfast  with  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin. " 

"  Breakfast !  "  cried  the  king.  "  That  was  a  very 
good  thing  to  do  in  the  days  when  I  had  an  appetite. " 

"Bless  my  soul!"  cried  the  surgeon,  folding  his 
arms.  *  You  will  have  none  of  your  mistress ;  you  '11 
have  none  of  your  friends;  you'll  have  none  of  your 
breakfast.  And  you  imagine  that  I  '11  allow  that,  do 
youl    Well,  sire,  I   tell   you  one  thing,  and   that   is 


46  MONSIEUE  DE  CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

that,  if  you  change  your  habits,  you  are  a  doomed 
man. " 

"  My  friend  makes  me  yawn ,  Lamartiniere ;  my  mis- 
tress puts  me  to  sleep;  my  breakfast  chokes  me." 

"  The  deuce  !  decidedly,  you  must  be  sick  then." 

"Ah!  Lamartiniere,"  cried  the  king,  "I  was  happy 
a  long  while. " 

"  And  you  complain  of  that  1  That  is  human 
gratitude." 

"  No,  I  don't  complain  of  the  past,  certainly  not,  but 
of  the  present.     The  carriage  wears  out  by  use. " 

And  the  king  heaved  a  sigh. 

"  True,  it  does  wear  out,"  the  surgeon  repeated 
sententiously. 

"  So  that  the  springs  refuse  to  work,"  sighed  the 
king ;  "  and  I  long  for  repose. " 

"Well,  go  to  sleep,  then!"  cried  Lamartiniere, 
going  back  to  bed. 

"  Let  me  go  on  with  my  metaphor,  my  dear  doctor." 

"  Can  I  be  mistaken,  and  are  you  turning  poet,  sire? 
Another  villainous  disease  that!  " 

"  No ;  on  the  contrary ,  you  know  that  I  detest  poets. 
To  please  Madame  de  Pompadour  I  made  that  wretch 
Voltaire  a  gentleman;  but  on  the  day  when  he  pre- 
sumed to  thee-and-thou  me  and  call  me  Titus  or  Trajan, 
I  put  a  stop  to  that  sort  of  thing.  I  intended  to  say, 
without  poetry,  that  I  think  it  is  time  for  me  to  put  on 
the  drag. " 

"  Do  you  wish  to  know  my  opinion,  sire  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  friend." 

"  Well  then,  don't  put  on  the  drag,  but  unharness  the 
horses. " 

"That's  a   harsh   remedy,"   murmured   Louis   XV. 

"  It  is  the  only  true  one,  sire.     When  I  address  the 


THE  king's  physician.  47 

king  I  call  him  Your  Majesty.  When  I  turn  over  my 
patient  I  don't  even  call  him  monsieur.  Unharness, 
therefore,  sire,  and  at  once.  Now  that  the  matter  is 
decided,  we  still  have  an  hour  and  a  half  to  sleep,  sire, 
so  let  us  sleep." 

The  surgeon  drew  the  coverlid  over  him  once  more, 
and  five  minutes  later  was  snoring  in  such  plebeian 
fashion  that  the  walls  of  the  Blue  Chamber  gnashed 
their  teeth  with  indignation. 


48  MONSIEUB  DB  CHAUVELIN'S  WILL. 


V. 

THE   king's   MOENING  RECEPTION". 

The  king,  left  to  himself,  did  not  attempt  to  disturb  the 
obstinate  doctor,  whose  slumber,  being  as  well  regulated 
as  a  clock,  lasted  just  as  long  as  he  had  announced. 

The  clock  had  struck  half-past  six.  As  the  valet 
de  chambre  entered  the  room,  Lamartini^re  rose  and 
went  into  an  adjoining  closet  while  his  bed  was  being 
removed. 

There  he  wrote  a  prescription  for  the  physicians  on 
duty  for  the  day,   and  disappeared. 

The  king  ordered  that  his  regular  attendants  should 
be  admitted  first  and  then  those  who  had  the  grandes 
entrees. 

He  saluted  silently,  then  gave  his  legs  to  the  valets  de 
chambre,  who  drew  on  his  stockings,  fastened  his  garters, 
and  arrayed  him  in  his  dressing-gown. 

Then  he  knelt  before  his  prie-Dieu,  sighing  several 
times  amid  the  general  silence. 

Every  one  had  knelt  with  the  king  and  prayed  as  he 
was  doing,  thinking  of  other  things. 

The  king  turned  from  time  to  time  toward  the  balus- 
trade where  the  most  intimate  and  most  favored  of  his 
courtiers  were  ordinarily  assembled. 

"Whom  is  the  king  looking  for?  "  the  Due  de  Eiche- 
lieu  and  the  Due  d'Ayen  asked  each  other  in  an 
xmdertone. 

"Not  for  us,  for  he  would  find  us,"  said  the  Due 
d'Ayen;  "  but  see,  the  king  is  rising!  " 


THE  king's  morning  beception.  49 

Louis  XV.  had,  in  fact,  finished  his  prayer,  or  had 
been  so  distraught,   rather,   that  he  had  not  said  it. 

"  I  do  not  see  monsieur  the  keeper  of  the  wardrobe, " 
said  Louis  XV.,  casting  his  eyes  about. 

"  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  1 "  asked  the  Due  de 
Richelieu. 

"  Yes." 

"  But  he  is  here,  sire." 

"  Where,  pray  1 " 

"  There,"  said  the  duke,  turning  round.  "Aha!  "  he 
added  suddenly,  as  if  in  surprise. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  demanded  the  king. 

"  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  is  still  praying. " 

In  truth  the  Marquis  de  Chauvelin,  that  entertaining 
heathen,  that  jovial  accomplice  in  the  petty  royal  sacri- 
leges, that  witty  adversary  of  the  gods  in  general  and  of 
God  in  particular,  had  remained  on  his  knees,  not  only 
contrary  to  his  usual  custom,  but  also,  contrary  to  eti- 
quette, the  king  having  finished  his  prayer. 

"  Well,  marquis, "  queried  the  king  with  a  smile,  "  are 
you  asleep  ? " 

The  marquis  rose  slowly  to  his  feet,  crossed  himself, 
and  saluted  Louis  XV.  with  profound  respect. 

Every  one  was  in  the  habit  of  laughing  when  Monsieur 
de  Chauvelin  chose  to  laugh ;  they  supposed  that  he  was 
joking  and  laughed  from  force  of  habit,  the  king  with 
the  rest.  But  he  resumed  his  serious  demeanor  almost 
immediately. 

"  Come,  come,  marquis, "  he  said,  "  you  know  that  I 
am  not  fond  of  jesting  on  sacred  subjects.  However,  as 
I  presume  that  you  wish  to  cheer  me  up  a  little,  I  for- 
give you  because  of  the  intention;  but  I  warn  you  that 
you  have  a  hard  task, "  he  added  with  a  sigh,  "  for  I  an^ 
as  depressed  as  death." 

4 


60  MONSIEUR  m  chauvelin's  will. 

"  You  are  depressed,  sire  1  "  said  the  Due  d'Ayen.  "  1 
pray  to  know  what  can  have  happened  to  depress  Your 
Majesty  ?  " 

"  My  health,  duke  !  my  health,  which  is  failing  me  ! 
I  make  Lamartiniere  sleep  in  my  bedroom  to  encourage 
me ;  but  the  fiend  makes  it  his  business  to  frighten  me 
instead.  Luckily  every  one  seems  inclined  to  laugh 
here.     Isn't  that  so,   Chauvelini" 

But  the  king's  lures  produced  no  result.  The  Marquis 
de  Chauvelin  himself,  whose  intelligent,  mocking  features 
were  usually  so  quick  to  reflect  the  master's  playful 
mood,  who  was  so  perfect  a  courtier  that  he  never  failed 
to  respond  to  a  desire  on  the  king's  part,  on  this  occa- 
sion, instead  of  responding  to  Louis  XV. 's  expressed 
craving  for  even  a  trifling  distraction,  remained  gloomy 
and  severe,  entirely  absorbed  by  inexplicable  gravity. 

Some  of  those  present  —  such  gloom  was  so  foreign  to 
all  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin's  ways  —  some,  we  say,  be- 
lieved that  the  marquis  was  keeping  up  the  jest,  and  that 
his  gravity  would  end  in  a  gorgeous  display  of  hilarity. 
But  the  king  had  not  the  patience  to  wait  that  morning; 
he  began  therefore  a  determined  assault  upon  his  friend's 
melancholy. 

"Why,  what  in  the  devil  is  the  matter  Avith  you, 
Chauvelin  ?  "  he  demanded ;  "  are  you  going  on  with  ray 
dream  of  last  night  1  Do  you  also  propose  to  have  your- 
self buried  alive  1  " 

"  Oh !  oh !  has  Your  Majesty  been  dreaming  about 
such  villainous  things  as  that  1  "  asked  Richelieu. 

"Yes,  I  had  the  nightmare,  duke.  But,  upon  my 
word,  I  should  be  very  glad  not  to  find,  when  I  wake,  a 
state  of  things  that  I  can  endure  when  I  am  asleep. 
Come !  Chauvelin,  tell  me  what 's  the  matter  with 
you?" 


THE   king's   MOENING  RECEPTION.  51 

The  marquis  bowed  without  replying. 

**  Speak,  speak,  I  tell  you ;  I  insist  upon  it !  "  cried 
the  king. 

"  Sire,"  replied  the  marquis,  "  I  am  reflecting." 

"  Reflecting  about  what  ?  "  demanded  Louis  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"God,  sire!" 

"God?" 

"  Yes,  sire.     God  —  is  the  beginning  of  wisdom." 

That  cold,  monkish  preamble  made  the  king  start ;  and, 
upon  looking  more  attentively  at  the  marquis,  he  de- 
tected in  his  worn,  haggard  features  the  probable  expla- 
nation of  his  unaccustomed  depression. 

"  The  beginning  of  wisdom  1 "  he  said.  "  Ah  !  in- 
deed, I  shall  not  be  surprised  if  that  beginning  never 
has  any  sequel;  it 's  too  tiresome.  But  you  were  not 
reflecting  about  God  all  by  himself.  What  else  were 
you  reflecting  about  1 " 

"  My  wife  and  children,  whom  I  have  not  seen  for  a 
long  while,  sire." 

"  True,  true,  Chauvelin ;  you  are  married  and  have 
children.  I  had  forgotten  it,  and  so  had  you,  too,  I 
should  say,  for  this  is  the  first  time  you  have  ever  men- 
tioned it  during  these  fifteen  years  that  we  have  seen 
each  other  every  day.  Oh,  well !  if  you  have  a  fancy  to 
see  the  domestic  kettle  boil,  send  for  them ;  I  've  no  objec- 
tion. Your  apartments  at  the  chateau  are  large  enough, 
I  imagine." 

"  Sire, "  replied  the  marquis,  "  Madame  de  Chauvelin 
lives  in  strict  retirement,  devoted  to  the  duties  of  religion, 
and  —  " 

"  And  she  would  be  scandalized,  eh,  by  the  goings 
on  at  Versailles?  I  understand.  She  is  like  my 
daughter  Louise,  whom  I  cannot  induce  to  leave  Saint- 


52  MONSIEUR  DE   CHATJVELIN's   WILL. 

Denis.     In   that   case   I   can   see   no  remedy,   tny  dear 
marquis. " 

"  I  ask  the  king's  pardon;  there  is  one." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  My  term  of  service  ends  this  evening.  If  the  king 
would  permit  me  to  go  to  Groshois  to  pass  a  few  days 
with  my  family  —  " 

"  You  are  jesting,  marquis;  leave  me?  " 

"  I  will  return,  sire ;  but  I  should  not  like  to  die  with- 
out having  made  some  testamentary  arrangements." 

"  Die  !  what  a  devil  of  a  man  !  Die !  how  he  says  it ! 
How  old  are  you,  marquis,  pray  ?  " 

"  Ten  years  younger  than  your  majesty,  sire,  although 
I  seem  to  be  ten  years  older." 

The  king  turned  his  back  on  the  humorist,  and  turned 
to  the  Due  de  Coigny,  who  was  standing  very  near  his 
raised  platform. 

"  Ah !  there  you  are,  Monsieur  le  Due, "  he  said. 
"  You  come  most  opportunely ;  we  were  speaking  of  you 
the  other  evening  at  supper.  Is  it  true  that  you  enter- 
tained poor  Gentil-Bernard  in  my  chateau  of  Choisy? 
That  would  be  a  good  action  for  Avhich  I  should  praise  you 
heartily.  However,  if  all  the  governors  of  my  chateaux 
did  the  same,  and  offered  an  asylum  to  poets  who  had 
gone  mad,  there  would  be  no  resource  left  for  me  but  to 
go  and  live  at  Bicetre.     How  is  the  poor  fellow  ?  " 

"  Still  very  badly  off,  sire." 

"  And  how  did  the  trouble  come  upon  him  ?  " 
*  From  having  amused  himself  a  little  too  much  here- 
tofore, sire,  and  especially  from  having  very  recently  tried 
to  play  the  young  man." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  understand.     Dame!  he  is  very  old." 

"  I  ask  the  king's  pardon,  sire,  but  he  is  only  a  year 
older  than  Your  Majesty. " 


THE   king's   MOKNING  RECEPTION.  53 

"  Upon  my  word,  this  is  beyond  endurance, "  said  the 
king,  turning  his  back  on  the  Due  de  Coigny.  "  Not  only 
are  they  all  as  melancholy  as  catafalques  to-day,  but 
they're  as  stupid  as  geese." 

The  Due  d'Ayen,  one  of  the  cleverest  men  of  that 
clever  age,  detected  the  king's  increasing  ill-humor,  and 
feared  that  he  might  be  spattered  by  it;  and  so,  having 
determined  to  p\it  an  end  to  it  at  the  earliest  possible 
moment,  he  stepped  forward  to  attract  the  king's  atten- 
tion. He  wore  on  his  doublet,  around  his  garters,  and 
around  the  edge  of  his  coat,  gold  embroidery,  so  broad 
and  conspicuous  that  it  could  not  fail  to  catch  the  eye. 
The  monarch  noticed  it. 

"  By  my  troth !  Due  d'Ayen,"  he  exclaimed,  "  you 
are  as  resplendent  as  a  svm.  Have  you  been  robbing  a 
caravan,  pray  ?  I  thought  all  the  makers  of  embroidery 
in  Paris  were  ruined  since  the  marriage  of  the  Comte  de 
Provence,  when  not  a  single  courtier  paid  them,  and  which 
messieurs  the  princes  did  not  see  fit  to  attend,  for  lack 
of  money  or  of  credit,  I  doubt  not." 

"  And  so  they  are,  sire,  altogether  ruined." 

"  Who,  the  princes,  the  makers  of  embroidery,  or  the 
courtiers  ?  " 

"Why,  all  of  them  to  some  extent,  I  fancy;  but  the 
embroidery  people  are  more  shrewd,  they  wUl  come  out 
whole." 

"How  so?" 

"  By  virtue  of  this  new  invention."  And  he  pointed 
to  his  own  embroideries. 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  Why,  coats  embroidered  in  this  way,  sire,  are  called  a 
la  chanceliere." 

"  I  understand  still  less." 

"  There  is  one  method  of  explaining  the  enigma  to 


M  MONSIEUR   DE   CHAUVELIN'S  WILL. 

Your  Majesty, —  to  quote  the  verses  that  those  idiotic 
Parisians  have  concocted, —  but  I  don't  dare." 

"  You  don't  dare,  duke  !  "  said  the  king  smiling. 

"  Faith !  no,  sire ;  I  await  the  king's  order. " 

"  I  give  you  the  order." 

**  The  king  will  remember,  of  course,  that  I  am  simply 
obeying  orders.     These  are  the  verses :  — 

"  *0n  fait  certain  galons  de  nouvelle  matifere; 
Mais  Us  ne  sont  que  pour  joiu-s  de  galas, 
On  les  nomme  k  la  chanceliere. 
Pourquoi  ?    C'est  qu'ils  sont  faux  et  ne  rougissent  pas.' "  * 

The  courtiers  exchanged  glances,  amazed  at  such  exces- 
sive audacity,  and  all  turned  at  the  same  moment  toward 
Louis  XV.,  in  order  to  model  their  faces  upon  his.  The 
Chancellor  Maupeou,  then  in  high  favor,  being  supported 
by  the  favorite,  was  so  exalted  a  personage  that  no  one 
dared  listen  to  the  epigrams  against  him  which  succeeded 
one  another  in  an  endless  stream.  The  monarch  smiled, 
and  immediately  every  mouth  was  wreathed  in  smiles. 
He  made  no  reply,  so  no  one  said  a  word. 

Louis  XV.  had  a  strange  temperament.  He  was  hor- 
ribly afraid  of  death,  and  he  did  not  wish  anybody  to 
mention  his  death  to  him.  But  on  every  occasion  he 
took  &  sort  of  delight  in  laughing  at  the  tendency  that 
almost  all  men  exhibit  to  conceal  their  age  or  their  in- 
firmities.    He  delighted  to  say  to  a  courtier, — 

"  You  are  an  old  man,  you  don't  look  well,  you  will 
die  soon." 

1  They  are  making  gold  lace  of  a  new  material ; 
But  it  is  for  use  onlj  on  gala  days. 
It  is  called  lace  a  la  chanceliere.^ 
Why  1    Because  it  is  false  and  does  not  blush. 
^  Chanceliire,  —  the  chancellor's  wife. 


THE   king's   morning   RECEPTION.  55 

He  was  philosophical  withal,  and  on  that  very  day  on 
which  he  had  twice  received  cruel  thrusts,  he  exposed 
himself  to  the  risk  of  a  third. 

To  resume  his  interrupted  conversation  with  the  Due 
d'Ayen,  he  said  to  him  abruptly, — 

"  How  is  the  Chevalier  de  Noailles  1  Is  it  true  that  he 
is  ill?" 

"  We  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  him  yesterday, 
sire." 

"Ah!  I  told  him  it  was  coming." 

Then,  glancing  around  the  circle  of  courtiers,  now 
increased  by  those  who  had  the  petites  entrees,  he  noticed 
the  Abbe  de  Broglio,  a  man  of  a  surly  disposition  and 
brusque  manners.     He  addressed  him  thus :  — 

"  It 's  your  turn  next,  abbe.  You  are  just  two  days 
younger  than  he." 

"  Sire,"  retorted  Monsieur  de  Broglio,  white  with  rage, 
"  Your  Majesty  hunted  yesterday.  A  storm  came  up. 
The  king  got  wet  like  the  rest." 

He  made  a  path  for  himself  through  the  throng,  and 
left  the  room  in  a  towering  passion. 

The  king  looked  after  him  with  a  melancholy  expres- 
sion, and  remarked, — 

"  That  is  the  way  that  Abbe  de  Broglio  always  acts ; 
he  loses  his  temper  continually." 

Then,  noticing  his  physician  Bonnard  at  the  door,  and 
with  him  Bordeu,  a  protege  of  Madame  du  Barry,  who 
aspired  to  take  his  place,  he  called  them  both. 

"  Come,  messieurs ;  the  talk  is  all  of  death  here  this 
morning,  and  that  interests  you.  Which  of  you  will  find 
the  fountain  of  Jouvence  for  us?  That  would  be  a 
marvel  indeed,  and  would  assure  his  fortune,  I  will 
answer  for  it.  Are  you  the  man,  Bordeu  ?  I  can  under- 
stand that  you,  ^sculapius  in  attendance  upon  Venus, 


56  MONSIEUE  DE  CHAUVELIN'S  WILL. 

have  not  as  yet  had  occasion  to  think  about  patching  and 
repairing  the  human  frame. " 

"  I  ask  the  king's  pardon,  but  I  have,  on  the  contrary, 
a  system  which  should  take  us  back  to  those  halycon 
days." 

"  Of  fable !  "  interrupted  Bonnard,  with  an  expression 
of  disgust. 

"  Do  you  think  so, "  said  the  king,  "  do  you  think  so, 
my  poor  Bonnard  1  The  fact  is  that,  under  your  guid- 
ance, my  youth  is  no  longer  anything  but  a  very  vmpala- 
table  fable,  and  the  man  who  should  give  me  back  my 
youth  would  be  historiographer  of  France  by  the  same 
token;  for  he  would  have  written  the  fairest  pages  of 
my  reign.  Make  it  a  cure  deserving  of  the  greatest 
celebrity,  Bordeu.  Meanwhile,  feel  Monsieur  de  Chau- 
velin's  pulse,  for  he  is  pale  and  depressed.  Give  me 
your  opinion  as  to  his  health,  which  is  most  precious  to 
our  enjoyment  —  and  to  my  heart, "  he  added  hastily. 

Chauvelin  smiled  bitterly  as  he  bared  his  wrist  for  the 
doctor. 

"  Which  of  you  two,  messieurs  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Let  both  of  them  feel  it, "  laughed  Louis  XV.,  "  but 
not  Lamartiniere.  He  is  just  the  man  to  predict  apoplexy, 
as  he  did  to  me." 

"Very  good,  you,  Monsieur  Bonnard;  the  past  before 
the  future.     What  is  your  opinion?" 

"  Monsieur  le  marquis  is  very  ill;  the  blood-vessels  of 
the  brain  are  full  and  obstructed;  he  would  do  well  to 
be  bled,   and  that  very  soon." 

"  And  you,  Monsieur  Bordeu  1  " 

"  I  beg  my  learned  confrere  to  excuse  me ;  but  I  am 
obliged  to  differ  from  his  experience.  Monsieur  le  mar- 
quis has  a  nervous  pulse.  If  I  were  talking  to  a  pretty 
woman,  I  should  say  that  she  had  the  vapors.     He  needs 


THE   king's  morning  RECEPTION.  57 

cheerful  scenes,  repose,  no  worry,  no  business  cares, 
complete  contentment;  in  short,  everything  that  he  finds 
at  the  court  of  the  august  monarch,  whose  friend  he  has 
the  honor  to  be.  I  prescribe  a  continuation  of  the  same 
regime." 

"  There  are  two  valuable  opinions,  and  Monsieur  de 
Chauvelin  ought  to  be  thoroughly  enlightened  by  them. 
My  poor  marquis,  if  you  die,  Bordeu  is  a  disgraced  man." 

"  No,  sire,  the  vapors  kill  when  they  are  not  attended 
to." 

"  If  I  die,  sire, "  replied  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin,  "  I 
pray  to  God  that  it  may  be  at  your  feet." 

"  Do  nothing  of  the  sort,  you  would  frighten  me 
terribly.  But  is  n't  it  the  hour  for  mass  1  I  think  I  see 
Monsieur  the  Bishop  of  Senez,  and  Monsieur  the  Cure 
of  Saint-Louis,  our  parish.  Now,  I  shall  certainly  get  a 
little  consolation.  Good-morning,  Monsieur  le  Cure,  how 
goes  your  flock  1     Are  there  many  sick  and  poor  1  " 

"  Alas !  sire,  there  are  very  many." 

"  But  are  not  alms  abvmdant  ?  Has  the  price  of  bread 
gone  up  ?     Has  the  number  of  unfortunates  increased  1 " 

"  Ah!  yes,  sire." 

"  How  does  it  happen  1     Where  do  they  come  from  ?  " 

"  Sire,  even  the  footmen  in  your  household  come  to 
me  for  charity." 

"  I  can  well  believe  it,  for  they  are  not  paid.  Do  you 
hear.  Monsieur  de  Richelieu  1  Can  you  not  arrange  that  ? 
Deuce  take  it!  You  are  first  gentleman-in- waiting  for 
the  year." 

"  Sire,  the  footmen  are  not  in  my  department ;  that  is 
a  matter  for  the  intendant-general  to  attend  to. " 

"And  he  will  send  it  on  to  some  one  else.  Poor 
fellows!  "  said  the  king,  moved  to  pity  for  an  instant; 
*  but  after  all  I  cannot  do  everything.     Do  you  go  with 


58  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN'S    WILL. 

US  to  mass,  bishop  1  "  he  added,  turning  to  Abbe  de 
Beauvais,  Bishop  of  Senez,  who  was  the  Lenten  preacher 
at  court. 

"  I  am  at  Your  Majesty's  service, "  replied  the  bishop 
bowing;  "but  I  have  listened  to  words  of  grave  import 
here.  You  talk  of  death  and  no  one  thinks  seriously 
about  it;  no  one  reflects  that  it  comes  in  its  own  good 
time,  when  it  is  not  expected,  that  it  comes  upon  us  in 
the  midst  of  our  pleasures,  that  it  mows  down  great  and 
small  with  its  inexorable  scythe.  No  one  reflects  that 
there  comes  a  time  of  life  when  repentance  and  penance 
are  as  much  a  necessity  as  a  duty,  when  the  fires  of  con- 
cupiscence should  die  away  before  the  great  thought  of 
salvation." 

"  Richelieu, "  the  king  interrupted  with  a  smile,  "  it 
seems  to  me  that  monsieur  the  bishop  is  throwing  a 
good  many  stones  into  your  garden." 

"  Yes,  sire,  and  he  throws  them  with  such  force  that 
they  rebound  into  the  park  of  Versailles." 

"  Ah !  well  answered,  Monsieur  le  Due ;  you  are  still 
as  quick  at  repartee  as  you  were  at  twenty  years  of  age. 
The  discourse  begins  well,  my  dear  bishop,  and  we  will 
hear  the  rest  of  it  Sunday,  in  the  chapel.  I  promise  to 
listen.  Chauvelin,  we  excuse  you  from  attending  us,  in 
order  to  brighten  you  up  a  bit.  Go  and  wait  for  me  at 
the  countess', "  he  added,  in  an  undertone.  "  She  has 
received  her  famous  golden  mirror,  Rotiers'  chef-d'oeuvre. 
You  must  see  it. " 

"  I  prefer  to  go  to  Grosbois,  sire. " 

"  Again !  you  are  in  your  dotage,  my  dear  fellow ;  go 
and  see  the  countess,  she  will  disenchant  you.  To  mass, 
messieurs  !  to  mass !  This  day  begins  very  badly.  That 
is  what  it  is  to  grow  old  1 " 


MADAME   DU   BARRY'S   MIRROR.  59 


VI. 

MADAME   DU   BARRt's    MIRROR. 

The  marquis,  in  order  to  obey  the  king's  command, 
betook  himself  to  the  favorite's  apartments  despite  his 
repugnance  to  do  so. 

The  favorite  was  in  a  seventh  heaven  of  delight. 
She  was  dancing  about  like  a  child,  and  as  soon  as 
Monsieur  le  Marquis  de  Chauvelin  was  announced,  she 
ran  to  him  and  cried,  without  giving  him  time  to 
speak, — 

"Oh,  my  dear  marquis,  my  dear  marquis,  you  come 
just  in  the  nick  of  time!  I  am  the  happiest  woman 
in  the  world  to-day !  I  had  the  most  delightful  waking 
you  can  imagine!  In  the  first  place  Eotiers  sent  me 
my  mirror.  That's  what  you  came  to  see,  of  course; 
but  we  must  wait  for  the  king.  And  then,  as  good 
luck  always  comes  in  showers,  the  famous  carriage  has 
arrived,  the  carriage  Monsieur  d'Aiguillon  has  given 
me,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  marquis.  "  The  vis-a-vis 
everybody  is  talking  about.  He  owed  you  that, 
madame. " 

"  Oh !  I  know  that  people  are  talking  about  it. 
Mon  Dieu  !  I  even  know  what  they  say  about  it. " 

"  Eeally,  do  you  know  everything?  " 

"Yes,  almost;  but  I  snap  my  fingers  at  it,  you 
understand!  Look,  here  are  some  verses  I  found  this 
very  morning  in  the  pockets  of  the  vis-a-vis.     I  might 


60  MONSIEUR   DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

have  the  poor  saddler  arrested,  but  pshaw!  That  sort 
of  thing  was  all  right  for  Madame  de  Pompadour.  I 
am  too  well  pleased  to  think  about  revenge.  Besides, 
it  seems  to  me  that  the  verses  are  n't  bad,  and  if  they 
would  always  treat  me  so,  on  my  word  of  honor,  I 
would  n't  complain." 

And  she  handed  the  verses  to  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin. 

Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  took  them  and  read  them :  — 

"  Pourquoi  ce  brillant  vis-k-vis  ? 
Est-ce  le  char  d'une  deesse 
Ou  de  quelque  jeune  princesse  ? 
S'dcriait  un  badaud  surpris. 
Non  —  de  la  f  oule  curieuse 
Lui  repond  un  caustique,  non, 
C'est  le  char  de  la  blanchisseuse, 
De  cet  inf^me  D'Aiguillon  1 "  ^ 

And  the  reckless  courtesan  roared  with  laughter. 
Then  she  continued :  — 

"  Of  that  infamous  D^ Aiguillon,  you  see,  his 
laundress.  Ah!  on  my  word,  the  author  is  right,  and 
he  doesn't  say  too  much.  Except  for  me,  in  truth, 
the  poor  duke,  notwithstanding  the  flour  he  covered 
himself  with  at  the  battle  of  —  I  never  can  remember 
the  names  of  battles  —  except  for  me,  the  poor  duke 
would  still  be  frightfully  black.  But  pshaw!  What 
does  it  matter,  as  my  predecessor,  Monsieur  de  Mazarin, 

1  "  Why  this  gorgeous  ms-h-vis  ? 
Is  it  some  goddess'  chariot, 
Or  that  of  a  fair  young  princess  1  " 
Cried  a  gaping,  wondering  lout. 
"  No  "  —  from  the  throng  of  curious  bystanders 
A  caustic  wit  made  answer  —  "  no, 
Tis  the  chariot  of  the  laundress 
Of  that  infamous  D'Aiguillon !" 


MADAME  DU   BARRY'S   MIRROR.  61 

used  to  say ,  they  sing  and  they  pay ;  and  a  single 
panel  of  my  vis-a-vis  is  worth  more  than  all  the 
epigrams  against  me  that  have  been  made  in  four 
years.  T  will  show  it  to  you.  Come,  marquis,  fol- 
low me." 

And  the  countess,  forgetting  that  she  was  no  longer 
Jeanne  Vaubernier,  and  forgetting  the  marquis'  age, 
tripped  singing  down  the  steps  of  a  secret  staircase 
leading  to  a  small  courtyard  where  the  carriage-houses 
were. 

"  Look,"  she  said  to  the  marquis,  who  was  panting 
for  breath,  "  is  that  very  bad  for  a  laundress'  carriage  ?  " 

The  marquis  was  speechless.  Nothing  more  mag- 
nificent and  more  refined  at  once  had  ever  met  his  gaze. 
On  the  four  principal  panels  were  the  arms  of  the  Du 
Barrys,  with  the  famous  war-cry,  Boute  en  avant. 

Upon  each  of  the  side-panels  was  a  basket  of  roses  on 
which  two  doves  were  tenderly  pecking  at  each  other, 
the  whole  varnished  with  the  Martin  varnish,  the 
secret  of  which  is  lost  now. 

The  carriage  cost  fifty-six  thousand  francs. 

**  Has  the  king  seen  the  superb  gift,  Madame  la 
Comtesse  ?  "  asked  the  Marquis  de  Chauvelin. 

"  Not  yet,  but  I  am  sure  of  one  thing." 

"  Of  what  are  you  sure  1  let  us  hear. " 

"  That  he  will  be  charmed  with  it." 

"Oho!" 

•*  Why  that  oho  ?  " 

*  Because  I  doubt  it. " 
"You  doubt  it?" 

**  I  will  even  go  so  far  as  to   bet  that  he   will   noii 
allow  you  to  accept  it." 
"Why  not?" 

*  Because  you  could  not  use  it." 


62  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN's   WILL.  ^ 

*  Oh !  indeed  ?  "  she  retorted  ironically.  "  Are  yon 
astonished  by  such  a  small  matter  1  " 

"Yes." 

"  You  shall  see  something  very  different  then ;  both 
the  golden  mirror  and  this,"  she  added,  taking  a  paper 
from  her  pocket.     "  But  no,  you  sha'n't  see  this." 

"As  you  please,  madame,"  rejoined  the  marquis 
bowing. 

"  However,  you  're  the  king's  oldest  friend,  next  to 
that  old  monkey  of  a  Richelieu.  You  know  him  well. 
He  listens  to  you.  You  could  help  me,  if  you  chose, 
and  in  that  case  —  come  up  to  my  closet  again,  marquis." 

"  At  your  service,  madame." 

"  You  are  very  disagreeable  to-day.  Pray,  what  is 
the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  sad,  madame." 

"  Ah  !  so  much  the  worse.     That 's  foolish  !  " 

And  Madame  du  Barry,  acting  as  the  marquis'  guide, 
ascended  with  a  more  sedate  step  the  secret  staircase 
which  she  had  just  descended,  light  of  foot  and  singing 
like  a  bird. 

She  returned  to  her  closet,  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin 
still  following  her.  Then  she  closed  the  door  and  said, 
turning  quickly  to  the  marquis,  — 

"  You  do  not  care  for  me,  do  you,  Chauvelin?  " 

"  You  cannot  doubt  my  respect  and  my  devotion, 
madame. " 

"  Will  you  serve  me  against  everybody  1  " 

"  Against  everybody  except  the  king. " 

"  In  any  event,  if  you  don't  approve  of  what  you  are 
going  to  hear,  you  will  remain  neutral." 

"  I  will  agree  to  do  so  if  you  demand  it." 

"  Give  me  your  word. " 

"  On  the  word  of  Chauvelin  I  ** 


•] 


MADAME   DU   BARKY'S   MIRROR.  63 

"Bead  then." 

And  the  countess  handed  him  the  most  extraordinary, 
most  audacious,  most  ridiculous  composition  that  ever 
was  placed  before  the  eyes  of  a  gentleman.  The  mar- 
quis did  not  understand  at  first  its  full  scope. 

It  was  a  petition  addressed  to  the  pope  for  the  annul- 
ment of  her  marriage  to  Corate  du  Barry ,  on  the  pretext 
that,  as  she  had  been  his  brother's  mistress,  and  as  any 
sort  of  alliance  was  forbidden  by  the  canons  under  such 
circumstances,  the  marriage  was  necessarily  void.  She 
added  that,  having  been  informed  immediately  after  the 
ceremony  was  performed  of  the  sacrilege  she  was  on 
the  point  of  committing,  of  which  she  had  had  no  sus- 
picion before,  she  had  been  stricken  with  fear,  and  the 
marriage  had  not  been  consummated. 

The  marquis  read  the  petition  twice  over,  then 
handed  it  back  to  the  countess,  and  asked  her  what  she 
intended  to  do  with  it. 

"Why,  send  it,  of  course,"  she  replied  with  her 
usual  effrontery. 

"  To  whom  1  " 

"To  its  address." 

"To  the  pope?" 

"To  the  pope." 

«  And  then  1  " 

"  You  cannot  guess  1  " 

"No." 

"  Great  heaven  !  how  hard  your  head  is  to-day  !  " 

"  That  may  be;  but  it 's  a  fact  that  I  cannot  guess." 
'  **  Did  you  think,  pray,  that  I  had  no  object  in 
patronizing  Madame  de  Montesson?  Have  you  for- 
gotten the  grand  dauphin  and  Mademoiselle  Choin, 
Louis  XIV.  and  Madame  de  Maintenon?  People  are 
crying   to  the  king  all  day  to  imitate  his  iUuatrious 


64  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN's   WILL. 

ancestor.  After  this  they  '11  have  nothing  to  say. 
I  'm  as  good  as  the  Widow  Scarron,  I  imagine;  and 
I  'm  not  sixty  years  old  into  the  bargain." 

"0  madame,  madame !  what  do  I  hear?"  exclaimed 
Monsieur  de  Chauvelin,  turning  pale  and  stepping  back. 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened  and  Zamore 
announced,  — 

"The  king!" 

**  The  king !  "  cried  Madame  du  Barry ,  seizing 
Monsieur  de  Chauvelin's  hand;  "the  king  I  not  a 
word.     We  will  continue  this  subject  another  time." 

The  king  entered. 

His  eyes  rested  first  on  Madame  du  Barry,  and  yet  he 
spoke  first  to  the  marquis. 

"Ah!  Chauvelin!  Chauvelin!"  he  cried,  impressed 
by  the  agitation  visible  on  the  marquis'  features,  "  do 
you  really  propose  to  die  for  good  and  all  ?  Upon  my 
word  you  look  like  a  ghost,  my  friend." 

"  Die !  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  die  I  "  laughed  the 
heedless  young  woman.  "  Oh,  no!  I  forbid  him  to  do 
it.  In  heaven's  name,  sire,  do  you  forget  the  horo- 
scope that  was  cast  for  him  five  years  ago  at  the  fair  of 
the  Loges  de  Saint-Germain  1  " 

"  What  horoscope  1  "  the  king  asked. 

"Must  I  repeat  it?" 

"Certainly." 

"You  don't  believe  in  horoscopes,  I  trust,  sire." 

"No,  but  tell  it  all  the  same,  whether  I  believe  in 
them  or  not." 

"Well,  some  one  predicted  that  Monsieur  de 
Chauvelin  would  die  two  months  before  Your 
Majesty." 

"Who  was  the  fool  who  predicted  that?**  queried 
the  king  with  some  uneasiness. 


MADAME   DU   BAERY'S   MIRROR.  65 

"  A  very  clever  sorcerer,  the  same  who  told  me  —  " 

"That  is  all  nonsense,"  interrupted  the  king  with 
well-marked  impatience.     "Let  us  see  the  mirror." 

"In  that  case,  sire,  we  must  go  into  the  adjoining 
room." 

"  Let  us  go  there." 

"  Show  us  the  way,  sire.  You  know  it.  It  is  your 
very  humble  servant's  bedroom."  The  king  did  in 
fact  know  the  way,  and  he  went  first. 

The  mirror  was  on  the  toilet  table,  covered  with  a 
thick  veil,  which  fell  at  a  word  from  the  king,  disclos- 
ing a  veritable  masterpiece  worthy  of  Benvenuto  Cellini. 
The  mirror,  in  a  solid  gold  frame,  was  surmounted  by 
two  Cupids  in  relief,  holding  a  royal  crown,  beneath 
which  the  head  of  the  person  who  happened  to  be  look- 
ing into  the  mirror  naturally  took  its  place. 

"Ah!  that's  a  magnificent  thing!  "  cried  the  king. 
**  Really ,  Rotiers  has  surpassed  himself.  I  will  con- 
gratulate him.  Countess,  I  give  you  this,  you  under- 
stand." 

"  You  give  me  the  whole  thing  1  " 

"Of  course." 

"  Mirror  and  frame  1  " 

"  Mirror  and  frame. " 

"Including  that?  "  added  the  countess  with  a  siren's 
smile  that  staggered  the  marquis,  especially  after  what 
he  had  just  read,  for  she  was  pointing  to  the  royal 
crown. 

"  That  plaything  ?  "  said  the  king. 

The  countess  nodded. 

"  Oh !  you  can  amuse  yourself  with  that  as  much  as 
you  please,  countess;  but,  I  give  you  fair  warning,  it 
is  heavy.  Come,  come,  Chauvelin,  won't  you  smoooth 
out  your  wrinkles  even  in  madame's  presence,  and  in 

5 


66  MONSIEUE   DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

presence  of  her  mirror,  which  is  a  double  favor  she 
accords  you ,  as  in  that  way  you  see  her  twice  ?  " 

The  royal  flattery  was  rewarded  by  a  kiss  from  the 
countess. 

The  marquis  did  not  relax. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  mirror,  marquis?  Come, 
tell  us  your  opinion." 

"  For  what  purpose ,  sire  1  " 

"  Why,  because  you  are  a  man  of  good  t&ste, pardieu  !  " 

"  I  should  have  preferred  not  to  see  it." 

"Bah!  why  so?" 

"  Because  then  I  could  at  least  have  denied  its 
existence. " 

"  What  does  that  mean  ?  " 

"Sire,  the  royal  crown  is  ill-placed  in  the  hands  of 
Cupids,"  replied  the  marquis,  bowing  low. 

Madame  du  Barry  became  purple  with  wrath. 

The  king,  deeply  embarrassed,  tried  to  look  as  if  he 
did  not  understand. 

"  Why,  on  the  contrary,  those  Cupids  are  lovely, " 
he  rejoined.  "  They  hold  the  crown  with  such  grace  as 
never  was  seen.  Look  at  their  little  arms,  how  grace- 
fully rounded  they  are.  Would  not  one  say  they  were 
carrying  a  garland  of  flowers  ?  " 

"That  is  their  proper  employment,  sire.  Cupids 
are  good  for  nothing  else." 

"  Cupids  are  good  for  everything.  Monsieur  de 
Chauvelin,"  said  the  countess.  "  You  used  not  to 
doubt  it ;  but  at  your  age  a  man  forgets  such  things. " 

**  To  be  sure,  and  it  is  proper  for  young  people  like 
me  to  remember  them,"  laughed  the  king.  "  So  the 
mirror  does  not  please  you?  " 

"  It  is  not  the  mirror,  sire. " 

"  What  in  heaven's  name  is  it  then?     Can  it  be  the 


MADAME   DU   BAEEY's   MIEEOE.  67 

charming  face  that  is  reflected  in  it  ?  The  devil !  you 
are  hard  to  please,  marquis." 

"  On  the  contrary,  no  one  pays  more  sincere  homage 
to  madame's  beauty." 

"But,"  interposed  Madame  du  Barry,  testily,  "if 
it 's  not  the  mirror  nor  the  face  reflected  in  it,  what  is 
it?     Tell  us." 

"  It  is  the  position  it  occupies. " 

"Why,  doesn't  it  look  wonderfully  well  on  this 
toilet  table,  which,  like  it,  is  a  gift  from  His 
Majesty  ?  " 

"  It  would  look  better  elsewhere. " 

"  Where,  in  God's  name  1  For  you  annoy  me  with 
this  air  that  no  one  ever  saw  you  adopt  before." 

"In  madame  la  dauphine's  apartments,  madame." 

"What?" 

"Yes,  the  crown  with  the  fleurs-de-lis  can  be  worn 
only  by  one  who  has  been,  is,  or  will  be  queen  of 
France. " 

Madame  du  Barry's  eyes  flashed  fire. 

The  king  frowned  threateningly. 

Then  he  rose  saying,  — 

"You  are  right,  Marquis  de  Chauvelin.  Your  mind 
is  diseased.  Go  and  seek  repose  at  Grosbois,  as  you 
are  so  unhappy  with  us.     Go,  marquis,  go." 

Monsieiir  de  Chauvelin  made  no  other  reply  than  a 
low  bow,  and  walked  backward  from  the  room  as  he 
would  have  done  from  the  state  apartments  at  Versailles ; 
and,  mindful  of  the  rigid  rule  of  etiquette  that  forbids 
saluting  any  person  whomsoever  in  the  king's  presence, 
he  went  out  without  so  much  as  glancing  at  the 
countess. 

The  countess  gnawed  her  nails  with  rage.  The  king 
tried  to  soothe  her. 


68  MONSIEUE   DE   CHAUVELIN's   WILL. 

"  Poor  Chauvelin !  "  he  said.  "  He  must  have  had 
some  such  dream  as  I  had.  In  truth  all  strong  minds 
surrender  at  the  first  touch  of  the  black  angel's  wing. 
Chauvelin  is  ten  years  younger  than  I,  and  I  still  claim 
to  be  a  better  man  than  he." 

"Oh!  yes,  sire,  you  are  a  better  man  than  anybody 
in  the  world.  You  are  cleverer  than  your  ministers 
and  younger   than  your  children." 

The  king  beamed  at  that  last  compliment,  which  he 
did  his  best  to  deserve,  despite  Lamartini^re's  advice. 


THE  MONK,  THE  TUTOR,  THE  STEWARD.    69 


VII. 

THE   MONK,    THE   TUTOR,    THE   STEWARD. 

On  the  day  following  that  on  which  the  king  had  given 
Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  permission  to  retire  to  his 
estates,  the  Marquise  de  Chauvelin  was  walking  in  the 
park  at  Grosbois  with  her  children  and  their  tutor. 

A  saint-like,  noble  woman,  left  in  oblivion  in  the 
shade  of  those  great  oaks  by  the  corruption  that  had 
devoured  France  for  fifty  years  past,  Madame  de 
Chauvelin  still  retained  her  hold  upon  God  who 
blessed  her,  her  children  who  loved  her,  and  her 
servants  who  worshipped  her. 

She  gave  God  her  prayers,  returned  the  love  of  her 
children,  and  was  charitable  to  her  neighbor. 

Always  interested  in  the  pursuits  of  her  husband,  she 
followed  him  with  her  thoughts  on  the  tempestuous 
stage  of  the  court,  as  the  sailor's  wife  follows  with  her 
heart  her  poor  husband  wandering  amid  storm  and  fog. 

The  marquis  had  loved  his  wife  dearly.  Having 
become  a  courtier  and  a  favorite ,  he  had  never  hazarded 
his  last  stake  in  the  game  which  kings  always  win 
against  their  favorites,  —  the  joys  of  domestic  life,  the 
last,  pure  flame  upon  which  he  smiled  from  afar.  The 
seaman  of  whom  we  spoke  just  now  kept  watch  of  that 
family  love  as  the  shipwrecked  man  watches  the  light- 
house. He  hoped  to  warm  himself  after  the  squall  at 
his  own  always  blazing,  always  joyous  fireside. 


70  MONSIEUR  DE  OHAUVELIN's  WILL. 

It  should  be  said  to  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin's  credit 
that  he  had  never  compelled  the  marchioness  to  come  to 
Versailles  to  live. 

The  pious  creature  would  have  obeyed.  She  would 
have  sacrificed  herself.  But  the  marquis  had  never 
broached  the  subject  to  her  but  once. 

At  the  first  sign  of  regret  that  appeared  in  his  wife's 
eyes  he  said  no  more.  It  was  not,  as  evil-minded 
people  said,  that  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  was  afraid  of 
his  wife's  sermons.  Every  rake,  every  courtier  who 
crawled  at  the  feet  of  the  concubine  or  the  monarch 
could  muster  sufficient  courage  to  browbeat  his  wife  and 
scold  his  children. 

No,  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  had  left  the  marchioness 
to  her  devout  reflections. 

"I  am  laying  up  enough  acres  of  land  in  hell,"  he 
said.  "  I  will  let  the  excellent  marchioness  secure  a 
few  inches  of  azure  for  me  in  heaven." 

He  was  hardly  even  seen  at  Grosbois.  His  wife 
made  a  holiday  for  him  every  year  when  he  arrived  at 
Saint-Andr^. 

The  programme  never  varied.  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin 
kissed  his  children  at  two  o'clock,  dined  with  his 
family,  entered  his  carriage  at  six,  and  was  present  at 
the  king's  coucher.^ 

For  four  years  he  had  done  nothing  more  than  that. 
In  four  years  he  had  touched  his  lips  four  times  to 
the  marchioness'  hand.  On  New  Year's  Day  his 
sons  went  to  Versailles  with  their  governor  to  see  him. 

Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  intrusted  his  wife  with  the 
education  of  their  children.     Abbd  V ,  a  scholarly 

1  The  coucher  was  the  reception  held  by  the  king  when  he 
retired,  as  the  lever  was  the  one  attending  his  rising  in  the 
morning. 


THE  MONK,  THE  TUTOB,  THE  STEWAED.    71 

young  man  who  had  not  yet  received  orders,  but  who 
was  called  abbe  by  courtesy,  zealously  seconded  the 
efforts  of  the  marchioness,  and  gave  all  his  time  as  well 
as  all  his  heart  to  the  young  children  abandoned  by 
their  father. 

Life  was  gentle  and  pleasant  at  Grosbois.  The 
marchioness  divided  her  time  between  the  management 
of  her  fortune,  which  was  placed  in  the  hands  of  an 
old  steward  named  Bonbonne,  the  most  rigid  observance 
of  all  the  religious  duties  enjoined  by  austere  piety, 
whose  impulses  were  guided  by  an  adroit  spiritual 
director,  Pere  Delar,  a  Camaldule  monk,  and  the 
education  of  her  two  children,  who  promised  to  bear 
worthily  a  name  made  illustrious  by  great  services 
rendered  to  the  state. 

Sometimes  a  letter,  dashed  off  by  the  marquis  in  his 
hours  of  disgust,  arrived  to  console  his  family,  and  to 
revive  in  the  marchioness'  heart  an  affection  which  she 
often  reproached  herself  for  not  giving  entirely  to  God. 

Madame  de  Chauvelin  still  loved  her  husband,  and 
when  she  had  prayed  all  day  Pere  Delar  would  call  her 
attention  to  the  fact  that  she  had  spoken  to  God  of 
her  beloved  husband  exclusively. 

The  marchioness  had  reached  a  point  Avhere  she  had 
ceased  to  expect  or  to  hope  for  her  husband  on  earth. 
She  flattered  herself,  like  the  good,  pious  creature  she 
was,  that  she  deserved  well  enough  of  God  to  be  per- 
mitted to  join  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  in  the  abode  of 
everlasting  joy. 

The  Camaldule   looked  sour  at  Monsieur  Bonbonne 

and   Monsieur   Bonbonne   at   Abbe   V ,    when  the 

children,  being  a  little  o\it  of  sorts  or  compelled  to  do 
penance,  seemed  to  regret  their  father,  although  they 
knew  him  so  little. 


72  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

"  It  must  be  confessed,"  the  monk  would  say  to  his 
penitent,  "that  that  life  will  damn  Monsieur  de 
Chauvelin." 

"  It  must  be  confessed,**  the  old  steward  would  say, 
"  that  the  race  he  is  running  will  ruin  the  family." 

"Let  us  agree,"  the  governor  would  say,  "that  these 
children  will  never  attain  glory,  having  never  known 
what  emulation  is." 

And  the  angelic  marchioness  would  smile  at  all  three , 
replying  to  the  monk  that  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin 
would  redeem  himself  in  time;  to  the  steward  that  the 
savings  effected  at  Grosbois  would  relieve  the  faintness 
of  the  strong-box  which  had  been  bled  so  freely  at 
Paris;  to  the  tutor,  that  the  children  came  of  good 
stock,  and  that  good  blood  is  incapable  of  lying. 

And  during  all  this  time  the  centenary  oaks  and  the 
fragile  nurslings  were  growing  at  Grosbois,  alike  deriv- 
ing their  sap  and  their  life  from  the  fruitful  bosom  of 
God. 

An  unhappy  day  arrived.  On  that  day  the  flowers 
in  the  park,  the  fruit  in  the  garden,  the  waters  of  the 
basin,  and  the  very  stones  of  the  ch§,teau  withered  and 
became  bitter  and  gloomy.  It  was  a  day  of  confusion 
in  the  family.  The  steward  Bonbonne  presented 
accounts  of  a  terrifying  nature  to  the  marchioness,  and 
predicted  ruin  for  her  children  if  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin 
did  not  make  haste  to  put  his  affairs  in  order. 

"Madame,"  he  said  after  breakfast,  "allow  me  to 
say  twenty  words  to  you." 

"Say  on,  my  dear  Bonbonne,"  the  marchioness 
replied. 

"Remember,  madame,"  interposed  P^re  Delar,  "that 
I  await  you  in  the  chapel. " 

"  And  I  have    the    honor    to    remind   Madame    la 


THE  MONK,  THE  TUTOR,  THE  STEWARD.    73 

Marquise,"   said  Abbe  V ,   "that   we  arranged  for 

an  examination  to-day  in  mathematics  and  grammar. 
Otherwise  these  two  young  gentlemen  will  do  no 
work. " 

The  two  Messieurs  de  Chauvelin  were  beginning  to 
rebel  against  Latin  and  science  on  the  pretext  that  their 
father  did  not  care  whether  they  were  learned  men  or 
not. 

The  marchioness  began  by  taking  Pere  Delar's  arm. 

"Father,"  said  she,  "I  will  begin  with  you.  My 
confession  will  be  a  short  one ,  thank  God !  Here  it  is : 
Yesterday  my  mind  wandered  during  divine  service." 

"  Why  so ,  my  daughter  ?  " 

"  Because  I  expected  a  letter  from  Monsieur  de 
Chauvelin  and  it  did  not  come." 

"Be  absolved,  if  that  is  all,  my  daughter." 

"  That  is  all ,"  the  marchioness  replied  with  a  seraphic 
smile. 

The  monk  withdrew. 

"  And  now  for  you,  Monsieur  I'Abbe.  The  examina- 
tion would  be  long  and  painful.  The  children ,  if  they 
complain,  do  not  know  their  lessons.  If  they  do  not 
know  them,  and  you  should  prove  it  to  me,  I  should  be 
compelled  to  scold  them  or  punish  them.  Spare  them 
and  ourselves.  Let  us  postpone  the  test  to  some  day 
when  it  will  be  satisfactory  to  us  all." 

Monsieur  I'abbe  agreed  that  madame  la  marquise 
was  right.  He  disappeared  like  the  monk,  who  was 
already  passing  out  of  sight  in  the  hazy  depths  of  the 
green  arcades. 

"Now  it  is  your  turn,  Bonbonne,"  said  the  mar- 
chioness. "  You  are  the  only  one  left.  Shall  I  settle 
matters  as  easily  with  your  forbidding  expression  and 
your  deep  sighs  1  " 


74  MONSIEUR   DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

"I  doubt  it." 

"Ah!  well,  let  us  see?" 

"  It  is  a  simple  matter.  My  accounts  are  alarmingly 
true." 

"Frighten  me,  if  you  can.  You  have  never  suc- 
ceeded in  frightening  my  private  cash-box." 

"Your  cash-box  will  be  frightened  this  month, 
madame.  It  will  be  more  than  frightened;  it  will 
die." 

"  Nonsense !  have  you  taken  me  into  the  account 
too?"  rejoined  the  marchioness,  trying  to  jest. 

"  Have  I  taken  you  into  the  account  1  I  should 
think  so;  that's  a  terrible  obstacle!  " 

"  I  have  never,  never  said  a  word  to  any  one, 
Bonbonne." 

"  Better  if  you  had!  But  I  had  no  need  for  you  to 
speak  to  know  all  about  it." 

"About  what?" 

"  The  amount  of  your  savings. " 

"  I  defy  you  to  tell  me !  "  cried  the  marchioness 
blushing. 

"  If  that  is  so,  I  will  go  straight  to  the  point.  You 
have  about  seventy-five  thousand  francs." 

"  0  Bonbonne!  "  said  the  marchioness  in  a  grieved 
tone,  as  if  the  steward  bad  indiscreetly  discovered  a 
painful  secret. 

"Madame  la  Marquise  does  not  suspect  me,  I  trust, 
of  having  meddled  with  her  papers." 

"If  not  — how?" 

"  How  much  have  you  a  year  for  your  housekeeping  ? 
Is  it  not  thirty  thousand  francs  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  How  much  do  you  spend?  Twenty-four  thousand, 
do  you  not  ?  " 


THE  MONK,  THE  TUTOE,  THE  STEWARD.    75 

"Yes." 

"  And  you  have  been  hoarding  the  diflference  for  ten 
years,  have  you  not,  as  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  has 
been  ten  years  at  court  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Very  well,  then,  madame,  with  the  compound 
interest  you  have,  or  should  have,  about  seventy-five 
thousand  francs." 

«  Bonbonne !  " 

"  I  have  guessed  right.  Now,  if  you  have  them,  you 
will  give  them  to  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  at  his  first 
request.  And  if  you  give  them  to  him,  there  will  be 
nothing  left  for  your  children  in  case  the  marquis 
should  be  suddenly  stricken." 

"  Bonbonne !  " 

"  Let  us  speak  frankly !  Your  property  is  pledged. 
Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  is  pledged  for  seven  hundred 
thousand   francs. " 

"  He  possesses  sixteen  hundred  thousand. " 

"  Very  good.  But  the  excess  over  seven  hundred 
thousand  francs  will  not  satisfy  his  creditors." 

"  You  frighten  me !  " 

"  I  am  trying  to. " 

"  For  what  purpose  ?  " 

"So  that  you  will  beg  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin,  who 
spends  too  much,  to  put  in  trust  at  once  for  the  benefit 
of  your  children,  the  remaining  nine  hundred  thousand 
francs;  to  beg  him  to  assign  them  to  you  as  a  jointure, 
or  to  leave  them  to  you  by  will." 

"  By  will  1  great  heaven!  " 

"  There  you  are  with  your  scruples!  Need  a  man  die 
because  he  makes  a  will  1  " 

"  To  think  of  mentioning  a  will  to  Monsieur  de 
Chauvelin!  " 


76  MONSIEUR   DE   CHAUVELIN's   WILL. 

"  That 's  it!  You  are  afraid  of  disturbing  monsieur 
le  marquis  in  his  pleasure,  in  his  digestion,  in  his 
favor  at  court,  by  those  horrid  words,  the  future,  which 
always  sound  in  happy  moments  like  the  word  death. 
Ah!  if  you  fear  that,  why,  you  will  ruin  your  children; 
but  you  will  have  spared  monsieur  le  marquis'  ears." 

" Bonbonne  I  " 

"  I  am  a  talking  column  of  figures.  Listen  to  my 
accounts. " 

"It  is  horrible." 

"  It  would  be  more  horrible  to  wait  for  what  I  tell 
you  is  imminent.  Play  the  part  of  a  judicious  adviser. 
Take  your  carriage  and  go  to  see  monsieur  le  marquis. " 

"In  Paris?" 

"No,  at  Versailles." 

"What!  I,  in  the  society  my  husband  frequents? 
Never !  " 

"Write,  then." 

"  Will  he  so  much  as  read  my  letter  ?  Alas  I  when  I 
write  to  congratulate  him  or  to  tell  him  how  I  long 
for  him,  he  does  n't  read  what  I  write.  What  will  he 
do  when  I  take  the  pen  as  a  man  of  business  ?  " 

"  Let  some  friend  do  it  then;  myself,  for  instance." 

"You?" 

"  Oh!  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  he  won't  listen  to 
me?     Oh!  yes,  madame,  he  will  listen  to  me." 

"  You  will  make  him  ill,  Bonbonne." 

"  His  doctor  will  cure  him. " 

"  You  will  make  him  angry  and  anger  will  kill  him." 

"No,  no!  I  am  too  anxious  for  him  to  live.  If  I 
kill  him,  it  won't  be  until  after  I  have  made  him  write 
his  will." 

And  the  worthy  man  indulged  in  a  loud  laugh  which 
wounded  the  marchioness. 


THE   MONK,   THE   TUTOR,  THE   STEWARD.  77 

"Bonbonne,  if  you  speak  so,  I  am  the  one  you  will 
kill,"  she  murmured. 

Bonbonne  took  her  hand  respectfully. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said.  "I  forgot  myself,  Ma- 
dame la  Marquise.  Order  the  horses  to  be  put  to  the 
carriage  and  I  will  start  for  Versailles." 

"Ah!  God  be  praised!  You  will  take  my  books, 
and  —  but  look  !  " 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Can  it  be  that  my  orders  are  anticipated  1  " 

"  How  so  1  " 

"  You  spoke  of  my  carriage  1  " 

"Yes." 

"  There  it  is  in  the  Avenue  du  Mail." 

«  Ah !  " 

"The  family  livery." 

"  Those  are  monsieur  le  marquis'  iron-gray  horses." 

"  Madame,  madame  !  "  cried  Abbe  V . 

"  Madame,  madame!  "  cried  P6re  Delar. 

"  Madame,  madame !  "  cried  twenty  voices  from  the 
offices,  the  gardens,  and  the  park. 

"  Mamma,  mamma!  "  cried  the  children. 

"Monsieur  le  marquis!  oh,  can  it  be  true?"  mur- 
mured the  marchioness.     "  He  at  Grosbois  to-day !  " 

"Good-morning,  madame,"  said  the  marquis  at  a 
distance.  His  carriage  had  stopped,  and  he  alighted 
joyously  with  eager  gestures. 

"  It  is  himself,  sound  in  body  and  cheerful  in  mind. 
I  thank  thee,  0  my  God !  " 

"  We  thank  thee,  O  God !  "  repeated  the  twenty 
voices  which  had  announced  the  coming  of  the  master 
and  father. 


78  MONSIEUR  DE  CHAUVELlN'S  WILL. 

vni. 

THE    gambler's    oath. 

It  was  the  marquis  himself.  He  affectionately  embraced 
his  two  children,  who  had  uttered  cries  of  joy  when  they 
saw  him,  and  he  bestowed  upon  the  hand  of  the  bewil- 
dered marchioness  a  kiss  that  came  from  his  heart. 

"You,  monsieur!  you,"  she  said,  taking  possession  of 
his  arm. 

"  Myself !  But  the  children  were  playing  or  study- 
ing. I  do  not  wish  to  interrupt  their  studies,  much  less 
their  play." 

"  Ah !  monsieur,  let  us  allow  them  to  enjoy  your  dear 
presence  to  the  full  during  the  short  time  they  have  to 
see  you." 

"  God  be  thanked,  madame,  they  will  see  me  for  a 
long  time." 

"  A  long  time  —  until  to-morrow  evening  —  do  you 
mean  it  ?     You  will  not  go  until  to-morrow  evening  1 " 

"  Better  than  that,  madame." 

"  You  will  sleep  two  nights  at  Grosbois  1 " 

"  Two  nights,  four  nights,  always. " 

"  0  monsieur,  what  can  have  happened  1 "  cried  the 
marchioness  eagerly,  not  reflecting  that  such  surprise  on 
her  part  might  be  construed  as  a  reproach  for  Monsieur 
de  Chauvelin's  past  conduct. 

The  marquis  frowned  for  a  moment,  then  suddenly 
asked,  with  a  smile, — 

"  Have  you  not  prayed  God  to  bring  me  back  to  my 
family  ? " 


THE  gambler's   OATH.  7d 

**  0  monsieur,  always !  " 

"  Very  well,  madame,  your  prayers  have  been  granted. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  a  voice  was  calling  me  and  I  obeyed 
that  voice." 

"  And  you  have  left  the  court  1 " 

"1  have  come  to  make  my  home  at  Grosbois,"  the 
marquis  replied,   choking  back  a  sigh. 

"  What  happiness  for  the  dear  children,  for  myself, 
for  all  the  servants  !  Ah  !  monsieur,  allow  me  to  believe 
that  it  is  true,  let  me  enjoy  that  felicity." 

"  Your  satisfaction,  madame,  is  a  balm  that  cures  all 
my  wounds.  But,  tell  me,  are  you  willing  to  talk  of 
household  affairs  a  little  1  " 

"By  all  means,  by  all  means,"  said  the  marchioness, 
pressing  his  hands. 

"  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  saw  some  very  sorry* 
looking  horses  by  the  postern  of  the  half -moon;  are 
they  yours  1 " 

"  They  are  mine,  monsieur." 

"  Horses  too  old  for  use !  " 

"  They  are  the  horses  you  gave  me  when  our  son  was 
born,  monsieur." 

"  They  were  four  and  a  half  then;  that  was  nine  years 
ago,  so  the  beasts  are  fourteen  years  old.  Fie !  such  a 
team  for  you,  marchioness  !  " 

"Ah,  monsieur,  when  I  go  to  mass,  they  succeed 
even  now  in  running  away." 

"  I  saw  three,  I  think." 

"  I  gave  the  fourth,  which  is  more  spirited,  to  my  son 
for  his  riding-lessons." 

"  My  son  learn  to  ride  on  a  coach-horse !  Marchioness, 
marchioness,  what  sort  of  a  horseman  will  you  make  of 
him?" 

The  marchioness  lowered  her  eyes. 


so  MONSIEUR  DE  CHArVELIN'S  WILL. 

"  And  do  you  no  longer  drive  with  four  horses  1  You 
have  eight,  I  think,  and  two  saddle  horses." 

"  True,  monsieur ;  but  as  there  are  no  hunting  parties 
or  riding  parties  during  your  absence,  I  reflected  that  by 
giving  up  four  horses,  two  grooms,  and  a  saddler,  I  could 
save  six  thousand  francs  a  year." 

"  Six  thousand  francs,  marchioness, "  murmured  Mon- 
sieur de  Chauvelin,  ill-pleased. 

"  That  is  enough  to  board  and  lodge  twelve  families," 
she  replied. 

He  took  her  hand. 

"Always  kind-hearted,  always  perfect!  Whatever 
you  do  on  earth  is  always  inspired  by  God  on  high.  But 
the  Marquise  de  Chauvelin  ought  not  to  save  money. " 

She  raised  her  head. 

"  You  mean  to  imply, "  he  continued,  "  that  I  spend 
money  freely.  It  is  true,  I  do  spend  a  great  deal  of 
money,  and  you  are  in  want." 

"  I  do  not  say  that,  monsieur." 

"  That  must  be  the  truth,  marchioness.  Noble  and 
generous  as  you  are,  you  would  not  have  dismissed  my 
servants  unless  from  necessity.  A  groom  discharged 
means  one  pauper  more.  You  have  been  in  want  of 
money.  I  will  talk  with  Bonbonne  about  it;  but  from 
this  day  forth  you  shall  never  be  in  that  condition  again. 
I  will  spend  at  Grosbois  what  I  have  spent  at  court, 
and  instead  of  taking  care  of  twelve  families,  you  shall 
take  care  of  two  hundred." 

"  Monsieur  —  " 

"And,  I  believe,  thank  God  I  that  there  will  be 
grain  enough  left  for  twelve  good  horses  which  I  own, 
and  which  will  come  to-morrow  and  live  in  your 
stables.  Did  you  not  say  something  about  repairing  the 
chateau?" 


THE   gambler's   OATH.  81 

"The  reception-rooms  would  need  to  be  furnished 
anew. " 

"  All  my  furniture  from  Paris  will  come  this  week. 
I  will  give  dinner  parties  twice  a  week;  we  will 
hunt." 

"You  know,  monsieur,  that  I  am  a  little  afraid  of 
society,"  said  the  marchioness,  alarmed  at  the  idea  of 
seeing  all  the  uproarious  friends  from  Versailles,  whom 
she  looked  upon  as  her  husband's  capital  sins. 

"  You  shall  name  the  guests  yourself,  marchioness. 
Now  Bonbonne  will  give  you  the  books;  you  will  have 
the  kmdness  to  combine  in  one  account  the  expenses  at 
Paris  and  those  at  Grosbois." 

The  marchioness,  wild  with  joy,  tried  to  answer  and 
could  not.  She  took  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin's  hands, 
kissed  them,  probed  the  lowest  depths  of  his  soul  with 
tear-dimmed  eyes,  and  yielded  to  the  blissful  power  of 
that  warm  atmosphere  of  pure  love  which  penetrates 
everything  it  touches,  and  carries  animation  and  a  sense 
of  well-being  to  the  coldest  extremities. 

"  Let  us  think  of  the  children, "  he  said ;  "  how  do  you 
succeed  in  managing  them  ? " 

"Very  well;  the  abbe  is  a  bright  man,  his  ideas  are 
profound.     Shall  I  present  him  to  you  1 " 

"  Present  all  the  household  to  me,  yes,  marchioness." 

The  marchioness  waved  her  hand,  and  in  a  moment 
they  saw  the  tutor  approaching  along  the  shady  avenue 
where  he  had  disappeared  with  the  children ;  one  of  his 
hands  rested  on  the  shoulder  of  each  child. 

There  was  in  the  bearing  and  graceful  motion  of  that 
young  oak  between  the  two  reeds  a  something  agreeably 
suggestive  of  the  paternal  relation,  which  pleased  the 
marquis  immensely. 

"  Monsieur  I'abbe, "  said  the  marchioness,  "  let  me  tell 
% 


S2  MONSIEUR  DE  CHAUVELIN's  WILL. 

you  some  good  news.  Monsieur  le  Marquis  here,  our 
lord  and  master,  proposes  to  remain  with  us." 

"  God  be  praised !  "  replied  the  abbe.  "  But  alas ! 
monsieur,   can  it  be  that  the  king  is  dead  1  " 

"  No,  thank  heaven !  But  I  have  bidden  adieu  to  the 
court  and  the  world.  I  remain  here  with  my  children. 
I  am  tired  of  living  only  in  the  mind  and  by  ambition ;  I 
propose  to  try  the  heart  for  a  while,  so  here  I  am  among 
you.  To  begin  with,  monsieur  I'abbe,  are  you  satisfied 
with  your  pupils?" 

"As  well  satisfied  as  it  is  possible  to  be,  Monsieur  le 
Marquis." 

"  So  much  the  better.  Make  of  them  good  Christians 
like  their  mother,  upright  men  like  their  grandfather." 

"And  men  of  intellect,  of  merit,  and  of  talent  like 
their  father,"  said  the  abb^.  "  I  hope  to  accomplish  all 
that." 

"  You  are  an  invaluable  man,  then,  abbe.  And  how 
are  you,  my  old  Bonbonne,  —  still  a  chronic  grumbler  ? 
When  I  was  no  older  than  these  boys  you  wanted  to 
initiate  me  into  the  mysteries  of  business.  I  ought  to 
have  done  as  you  wished,  and  then  I  shouldn't  have 
been  in  such  need  of  your  experience  to-day." 

The  children  were  dancing  about  on  the  grass  with  all 
the  heedless  gayety  of  their  age.  Their  father  followed 
their  movements  with  an  eye  softened  by  emotion,  and 
murmured,  after  a  moment's  silence,  — 

"  Dear  boys,  I  will  never  leave  you  again." 

"  May  God  grant  that  you  speak  the  truth.  Monsieur 
le  Marquis !  "  said  a  grave,   deep  voice  behind  him. 

Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  turned  and  found  himself  facing 
a  white-frocked  monk,  with  a  calm,  stern  face,  who 
saluted  him  after  the  manner  of  monks. 

"  Who  ia  this  holy  father  ?  "  the  marquis  asked  his  wife, 


THE   gambler's   OATH.  83 

**  Pere  Delar,  my  confessor. " 

"  Ah  !  your  confessor, "  he  repeated,  losing  color  some- 
what. Then,  in  a  lower  tone,  he  added,  "  I  need  a  con« 
f essor  myself,  and  monsieur  is  most  welcome. " 

The  monk,  an  adroit  man,  and  accustomed  to  the  ways 
of  the  great,  knew  hetter  than  to  comment  on  the  remark, 
but  he  registered  it  in  his  memory.  Having  been 
advised  of  the  condition  of  affairs  some  days  before  by  the 
steward,  he  determined  to  undertake  the  negotiation,  and 
not  to  let  slip  so  promising  an  opportunity  of  attending  to 
God's  business,  the  marchioness',  and,  it  might  be,  his 
own  as  well. 

"  May  I  venture  to  ask  you  for  news  of  the  king, 
Monsieur  le  Marquis  1  "  queried  the  monk. 

"  Why  so,  father  1  " 

"  Because  there  is  a  rumor  that  Louis  XV.  is  likely 
soon  to  render  an  account  of  his  reign  to  God.  Such 
rumors  are  ordinarily  the  precursors  of  Providence.  His 
Majesty  has  not  long  to  live,  believe  me." 

"  Is  that  your  belief,  father  1  "  said  Monsieur  de 
Chauvelin,  more  and  more  depressed. 

"  It  is  much  to  be  desired,  therefore,  that  he  amend 
his  scandalous  ways,   that  he  repent  —  " 

"Monsieur,"  the  marquis  hastily  interrupted,  "confes- 
sors should  wait  in  silence  until  they  are  summoned. " 

"  Death  does  not  wait,  monsieur,  and  I  have  long  been 
awaiting  a  word  from  you,  but  it  does  not  come. " 

"  Oh !  my  confession  will  be  a  long  one,  but  it  is  not 
yet  ripe." 

"  Confession  consists  entirely  in  repentance,  in  regret 
for  having  sinned;  and  the  greatest  of  all  sins,  as  I  have 
told  you,  is  behavior  that  causes  scandal." 

"  Oh !  as  for  scandal,  everybody  causes  more  or  less. 
There  is  not  one  of  us  who  does  not  furnish  food  for  evil- 


84  MONSIEUR   DE   CHAUVELIN's   WILL. 

speaking.  Heaven  does  not  intend  to  punish  us  for  the 
lying  tongues  of  other  people." 

"  Heaven  punishes  disobedience  to  its  laws,  heaven 
punishes  impertinence.  It  sends  us  warnings;  if  we 
neglect  them  nothing  can  save  us." 

Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  did  not  reply,  hut  seemed  lost 
in  reflection.  The  marchioness,  seeing  that  the  conver- 
sation was  fairly  inaugurated,  discreetly  withdrew,  pray- 
ing God  with  all  her  heart  that  it  might  bear  fruit. 
After  a  long  minute's  silence,  during  which  the  monk 
watched  him  closely,  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  turned 
abruptly  to  him. 

"  Look  you,  father, "  he  said,  "  I  believe  that  you  are 
right.  I  repent  of  having  been  young  too  long,  and  I 
mean  to  confess  to  you,  for  I  feel,  I  feel  that  death  is 
near  at  hand." 

"  Death !  you  believe  that  death  is  near,  and  you  take 
no  steps  to  ensure  your  soul's  salvation,  or  to  arrange  for 
the  disposition  of  your  fortune.  You  fear  death,  and 
yet  you  do  not  think  of  making  the  will  which  is  indis- 
pensable in  the  condition  of  affairs  which  you  have  created 
for  your  heirs.  Pardon  me.  Monsieur  le  Marquis,  my 
zeal  and  my  devotion  to  your  illustrious  family  carry  me 
over  far  perhaps." 

"  No,  you  are  right  once  more,  father ;  but,  have  no 
fear,  the  will  is  made;   I  have  only  to  sign  it." 

"  You  fear  death,  and  you  are  not  in  a  condition  to 
appear  before  God." 

"  May  he  have  mercy  on  me !  I  was  born  in  the 
Christian  religion  and  I  wish  to  die  a  Christian.  Come 
to-morrow,  I  beg  you,  and  we  will  continue  this  inter- 
view, which  will  give  rest  to  my  soul." 

"  To-morrow  1  why  to-morrow  1  Death  does  not  pause 
or  turn  back." 


THE   gambler's   OATH.  85 

**  I  need  to  collect  my  thoughts.  I  can  not  forget  so 
quickly  the  life  I  have  led;  perhaps  I  long  for  it. 
Thanks  for  your  counsel,  father;   it  will  hear  fruit." 

"  God  grant  it !  hut  you  know  the  wise  man's  motto : 
Never  postpone  till  to-morrow  what  can  he  done  to-day." 

"  I  already  owe  you  a  deht  of  gratitude.  T  was  cast 
down,  you  have  raised  me;  everything  cannot  he  done 
at  once,  father." 

"  Ah  !  Monsieur  le  Marquis, "  replied  the  monk  how- 
ing,  "  hut  a  moment  is  required  to  make  of  the  culprit  a 
penitent;  of  the  damned,  one  of  the  elect;  if  you 
choose  —  " 

"  Very  good,  very  good,  father,  to-morrow.  There  is 
the  dinner-hell." 

He  dismissed  him  with  a  gesture  and  walked  hastily 
into  one  of  the  paths.     The  tutor  approached  Pere  Delar. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  monsieur  le  marquis  ?  I 
should  not  know  him ;  he,  who  was  always  so  animated, 
is  anxious,  depressed,  and  haggard." 

"  He  has  a  presentiment  that  his  end  is  near,  and  he  is 
thinking  ahout  mending  his  ways.  It  will  he  a  magnifi- 
cent conversion,  and  will  hring  much  honor  to  my  con- 
vent.    Oh  !  if  the  king  —  " 

"  Aha !  the  appetite  seems  to  come  with  eating,  father. 
1  fear,  however,  that  your  longings  will  remain  unsatisfied 
in  that  direction.  His  Majesty  is  a  hard  man  to  convince, 
and  then,  too,  he  has  his  own  converters.  Monseigneur 
the  Bishop  of  Senez  is  spoken  of  as  a  hardy  champion." 

"  Oh  !  the  king  is  n't  so  incredulous  as  you  claim.  Do 
you  rememher  his  illness  at  Metz,  and  the  dismissal  of 
Madame  de  Chateauroux  ?  " 

"Yes,  hut  Louis  XV.  was  young  then,  and  it  was 
not  a  question  of  dislodging  Jeanne  Vaubernier,  —  two 
considerations  which  make  an  immense  difference.     HoW' 


86  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAIJVELIN'S   WILL. 

ever,  you  have  time  enough  to  think  ahout  it,  dear  Mon- 
sieur  Delar;  meanwhile,  as  dinner  has  heen  announced, 
we  must  not  keep  monsieur  le  marquis  waiting.  He 
does  n't  dine  with  us  often,   God  knows !  " 

The  father,  mother,  and  children  were  assembled  at  the 

dinner  table,  where  Pere  Delar  and  Abbe  V arrived 

in  good  time.  The  marchioness  had  never  seemed  so 
happy ;  never  had  she  exerted  herself  to  such  good  effect 
to  do  the  honors  of  her  table. 

The  cook  had  surpassed  himself.  Fine  fish  from  the 
artificial  ponds,  fat  chickens  from  the  poultry-yard,  the 
most  luscious  fruits  of  hothouse  and  garden  reminded 
the  marquis  what  excellent  cheer  the  house  afforded 
when  a  cherished  master  Avas  to  be  entertained. 

The  valets,  proud  of  the  illustrious  service  they  were 
about  to  resume,  strutted  about  in  their  newest  liveries, 
and  watched  the  master's  eyes  for  the  slightest  sign  of  a 
wish  to  be  anticipated,  of  an  annoyance  to  be  guarded 
against. 

But  the  marquis  soon  lost  the  hearty  appetite  of  which 
he  had  boasted  after  his  arrival ;  the  table  seemed  deserted 
to  him ;  the  respectful,  happy  silence  seemed  to  him  the 
silence  of  deathly  dulness.  Gradually  his  heart  and  his 
features  alike  were  invaded  by  melancholy;  he  let  his 
inert  hand  fall  beside  his  still  laden  plate,  and  forgot  the 
glasses  in  which  the  wines  of  Ai  and  of  Burgundy,  thirty 
years  old,  sparkled  in  diamonds  and  rubies. 

From  melancholy  the  marquis  arrived  at  downright 
despondency;  every  one  followed  with  alarm  the  pain- 
ful progress  of  his  depression. 

A  tear  suddenly  started  from  his  eyes  and  wrung  a  sigh 
from  the  marchioness.     He  did  not  notice  it. 

"  I  have  been  reflecting, "  he  suddenly  said  to  his  wife. 
**  I  want  to  be  buried,  not  at  Boissy-Saint-L^ger  with  my 


THE   gambler's   OATH.  87 

father  and  mother,  but  in  the  Carmelite  church  on  Place 
Maubert,  Paris,  with  my  ancestors." 

"  Why  do  you  think  about  such  things,  monsieur  1 
We  have  time  enough  for  that,  I  imagine,"  said  the 
marchioness,  choked  with  grief. 

"  Who  knows  ?  Let  some  one  call  Bonbonne  and  tell 
him  to  wait  for  me  in  my  large  study.  I  propose  to 
work  with  him  for  an  hour.  Pere  Delar  pointed  out  to 
me  the  necessity  of  so  doing.  You  have  an  excellent 
confessor  in  him,  madame." 

"  I  am  happy  that  he  meets  your  approval,  monsieur; 
you  can  address  yourself  to  him  with  perfect  confidence." 

"  I  will  do  so,  and  no  later  than  to-morrow.  With 
your  permission,  madame,  I  will  go  to  my  apartments." 

The  marchioness  raised  her  eyes  and  thanked  God  in 
a  mental  prayer.  She  looked  after  her  husband  as  he  left 
the  room  with  Bonbonne,  and  said,  turning  to  her  sons,  — 

"  To-night,  my  children,  ask  God  to  inspire  your  father 
with  the  desire  to  remain  permanently  among  us,  to  keep 
him  in  the  same  frame  of  mind  in  which  he  now  is,  and 
to  give  him  grace  to  carry  out  his  purposes." 

"  Come,  my  old  Bonbonne, "  said  the  marquis  when  he 
was  in  his  study,  "  to  work,  to  work !  " 

He  turned  over  all  the  papers  with  feverish  eagerness, 
trying  to  identify  and  arrange  them. 

"  There,  there  !  "  said  the  old  man ;  "  as  we  're  on  the 
right  road,  my  dear  master,  let  us  not  go  too  fast;  we 
lose  time  by  going  too  fast,  you  know." 

"  Time  presses,  Bonbonne.     I  tell  you,  time  presses. " 

"  Nonsense." 

"  I  tell  you  that  the  man  to  whom  God  grants  the 
blessed  joy  of  preparing  for  his  last  journey  can  never 
work  quickly  enough.  Make  haste,  Bonbonne,  let 's  to 
work. " 


88  MONSIEUE  DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

"  At  this  rate,  with  this  heat,  monsieur,  you  will  have 
pleurisy  or  congestion  of  the  lungs  or  a  sharp  attack  of 
fever,  and  in  that  Avay  you  will  succeed  in  having  your 
will  made  just  in  time." 

"  No  more  delay.     Where  is  the  account  of  receipts  ?  '* 

«  Here." 

"And  of  outlay?" 

"Here." 

"  Sixteen  hundred  thousand  francs  deficit  ?   The  devil ! " 

"  Two  years  of  economical  living  will  fill  the  hole." 

"  I  have  n't  two  years  to  economize." 

"  Oh !  you  will  drive  me  mad !  What,  with  such 
health  as  yours  ?  " 

"  Did  n't  you  tell  me  that  the  notary  had  made  a  very 
ingenious  draft  of  a  will,  in  that  it  assured  my  sons  the 
whole  of  the  property  at  their  majority  1  " 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  if  you  will  give  up  for  six  years  a 
fourth  of  the  revenue  from  the  real  estate  only." 

"  Let  me  see  the  draft." 

"Here  it  is." 

"  My  eyes  are  a  little  weak.  Won't  you  read  it  to  me 
yourself  1  " 

Bonbonne  began  to  read  it  article  by  article ;  the  mar- 
quis from  time  to  time  expressed  the  liveliest  satisfaction. 

"  The  scheme  is  an  excellent  one, "  he  said,  at  last, 
"  especially  as  it  gives  Madame  de  Chauvelin  three  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  a  year,  twice  what  she  now  has." 

"  You  approve  it  then  1 " 

"  In  every  respect." 

"  So  that  I  can  transcribe  it  ?  " 

"  Transcribe  it." 

"  And  then  you  must  give  it  validity  by  putting  your 
band  to  it." 

"  Do  it  quickly,  Bonbonne,  do  it  quickly  I  " 


THE   gambler's   OATH.  89 

"  Why,  you  are  absolutely  unreasonable.  It  took  me 
half  an  hour  to  read  the  document  to  you.  I  must  have 
at  least  an  hour  to  copy  it." 

"  Oh !  if  you  knew  what  haste  I  am  in !  Come,  dic- 
tate to  me,  I  will  write  it  all  with  my  own  hand." 

"  By  no  means,  monsieur,  by  no  means,  your  eyes  are 
red  already ;  if  you  should  write  for  quarter  of  an  hour 
you  would  have  a  fever  on  the  heels  of  the  headache  you 
are  going  to  have." 

"  What  shall  I  do  during  the  hour  that  you  think  you 
require  1  " 

"  Go  for  a  walk,  take  the  air  on  the  lawn  with  madame 
la  marquise.  I  will  cut  my  pens,  and  woe  to  the  paper ! 
I  will  blacken  more  of  it,  all  by  myself,  I  promise  you, 
than  three  attorney's  clerks." 

The  marquis  followed  the  suggestion  with  a  sort  of  re- 
pugnance; he  felt  dull  and  heavy,  yet  strangely  agitated. 

"Be  calm,  pray,"  said  Bonbonne.  "Are  you  afraid 
you  won't  have  time  to  sign?  An  hour,  I  tell  you. 
What  the  deuce !  Monsieur  le  Marquis,  surely  you  will 
live  sixty-one  minutes." 

"  You  are  right, "  he  replied,  and  he  went  downstairs. 

The  marchioness  was  awaiting  him.  Seeing  that  he 
was  calmer  and  his  face  brighter,  she  said, — 

"  Well,  monsieur,  have  you  been  hard  at  work  ? " 

"  Oh !  yes,  marchioness,  and  at  useful  work,  with 
which  you  and  your  sons  will  be  content,  I  trust." 

"  So  much  the  better !  give  me  your  arm.  Shall  we 
walk  ?  The  hothouses  are  open ;  would  you  like  to  pay 
them  a  visit  ?  " 

"  Whatever  you  please,  marchioness. " 

"  You  will  sleep  well  after  the  walk.  If  you  knew 
how  delighted  the  servants  were  to  put  sheets  on  your 
great  bed." 


90  MONSIEUR   DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

"  I  shall  sleep  as  I  have  not  slept  for  ten  years,  mar- 
chioness; I  tremble  with  pleasure  simply  to  think  of  it." 

"  You  think  that  you  will  not  be  too  much  bored  here 
with  us  1 " 

"  No,  marchioness,  no. " 

"  And  that  you  will  get  used  to  our  country  ways  1 " 

"  Yes,  without  any  difficulty.  And  if  the  king,  whom 
I  regret  having  treated  somewhat  rudely,  perhaps, —  if 
the  king  forgets  me,  he  will  do  well." 

"  The  king  ?  Ah  !  monsieur, "  said  the  marchioness 
affectionately,  "you  sighed  when  you  spoke  of  His 
Majesty." 

"  I  love  the  king,  marchioness,  but  believe  me  —  " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  The  cracking  of  a 
whip  and  the  sound  of  a  horse's  bells  interrupted  him. 

"What  is  that?"  he  said. 

"  A  courier  just  passing  through  the  gate, "  the  mar- 
chioness replied.     "  Is  he  in  your  service  ?  " 

"  No ;  it  is  strange.  A  courier  whom  everybody  sa- 
lutes, who  is  allowed  to  enter  the  flower-garden,  can 
come  only  from  —  " 

"  From  the  king !  "  murmured  the  marchioness,  turn- 
ing  pale. 

"  In  the  king's  name !  "  cried  the  courier  in  a  loud 
voice. 

"  The  king  !  " 

Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  hurried  toward  the  courier, 
who  had  already  handed  his  letter  to  the  maitre  d'hotel. 

"  A  letter  from  the  king,  alas !  "  said  the  marchioness 
to  P^re  Delar,  whom  the  noise  of  the  arrival  had  at- 
tracted with  the  rest. 

The  marquis  offered  the  courier  wine  in  a  silver  goblet, 
an  honor  explained  by  the  respect  accorded  by  every  gen- 
tleman to  royalty,  even  when  represented  by  a  servant 


THE   gambler's   OATH.  91 

He  opened  the  letter ;  it  contained  these  lines  written  in 
the  monarch's  own  hand:  — 

"  It  is  hardly  twenty-four  hours  since  you  went  away,  my 
friend,  and  it  seems  as  if  I  had  not  seen  you  for  months. 
Old  men  who  love  each  other  ought  not  to  part.  WiU 
they  have  time  to  join  each  other  again?  I  am  sad  unto 
death.  I  need  you ;  come,  do  not  deprive  me  of  a  friend  on 
the  pretext  of  wishing  to  defend  my  crown.  It  is  the  surest 
way  to  attack  it,  on  the  contrary,  and,  so  long  as  you  sustain 
it  by  your  presence,  I  shall  feel  that  it  is  firmer  than  ever. 
Let  me  see  you  to-morrow  at  my  lever ;  that  will  be  a  sign 
of  a  happy  day. 

"  Your  most  affectionate 

"Louis." 

"  The  king  summons  me, "  said  Chauvelin,  deeply 
moved.  "  I  must  go  instantly ;  he  cannot  do  without  me. 
Let  my  horses  be  harnessed  !  " 

"  Oh !  "  rejoined  the  marchioness,  "  so  soon,  after  so 
many  sweet  promises  !  " 

"  You  shall  hear  from  me  soon,  madame." 

"  Monsieur  le  Marquis,  the  copy  is  made  !  "  cried  Bon- 
bonne  in  the  distance. 

"  Very  well !  very  well !  " 

"  You  have  only  to  read  it  over  and  sign  it." 

"  I  have  n't  the  time.     Later." 

"  Later !     Why  remember  what  you  said  just  now." 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it." 

"  'No  more  delay.'" 

"  The  king  cannot  wait." 

"  But  you  forget  your  children,  you  forget  the  fate  of 
your  family." 

"  I  forget  nothing,  Bonbonne ;  but  I  must  go,  and  I  am 
going.  My  children  and  the  future  of  my  family  are  all 
cared  for,  Bonbonne,  remember  that." 


92  MONSIEUR   DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

"  A  signature,  only  a  signature. " 

"You  see,  my  old  friend,"  said  the  marquis,  radiant 
with  joy,  "  I  am  so  determined  to  arrange  that  matter, 
that  if  I  should  die  hefore  I  have  signed  my  will,  I 
swear  to  you  that  I  will  return  from  the  other  world,  and 
that  is  far  away,  for  the  express  purpose  of  signing  it. 
Let  that  set  your  mind  at  rest ;  adieu. " 

Hastily  embracing  his  children  and  his  wife,  forgetting 
everything  except  king  and  court,  he  jumped  into  his 
carriage  as  if  he  had  grown  twenty  years  younger,  and 
started  for  Paris. 

The  marchioness  and  the  whole  household,  but  now  so 
joyous  and  happy,  remained  by  the  gate,  deserted,  de- 
pressed, dumb  with  despair. 


VENUS  AND  PSYCHE.  93 


IX. 

VENUS    AND    PSYCHE. 

On  the  morning  following  the  despatch  of  his  letter  to 
Grosbois,  the  first  words  spoken  by  Louis  XV.  were  an 
inquiry  for  the  Marquis  de  Chauvelin,  and  his  first 
glance  was  in  search  of  him. 

The  marquis,  had  arrived  during  the  night  and  was 
present  at  the  petit  lever. 

"  Good, "  said  the  king,  "  there  you  are,  marquis.  Mon 
Dieu !  what  a  long  time  you  have  been  away !  " 

"  It  is  my  first  absence,  sire,  and  shall  be  my  last ;  if  I 
leave  you  now  it  will  be  forever.  But  the  king  is  very 
kind  to  think  that  I  have  been  long  absent.  I  have  been 
away  only  twenty-four  hours." 

"  Do  you  mean  it,  dear  friend  ?  In  that  case  it  must  be 
that  devilish  prediction  ringing  in  my  ears ;  so  that,  fail- 
ing to  see  you  at  your  usual  post,  I  imagined  that  you 
were  dead,  and,  with  you  dead,  —  you  understand  ?  " 

"Perfectly,  sire." 

"  Let  us  say  no  more  about  that.  You  are  here  and 
that 's  the  main  thing.  To  be  sure  the  countess  has  a 
little  grudge  against  us :  against  you  for  saying  what  you 
said,  against  me  for  recalling  you  after  such  an  insult; 
but  don't  you  worry  over  her  ill-humor,  for  time  arranges 
all  those  things  and  the  king  will  assist  time." 

"Thanks,  sire." 

"  Tell  me  what  you  did  during  your  exile. " 

"  Fancy,  sire,  that  I  came  near  being  converted  I  ** 


94  MONSIEUE   DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

"  I  understand :  you  are  beginning  to  repent  of  having 
sung  of  the  seven  mortal  sins." 

"  Oh !  if  I  had  never  done  aught  but  sing  of  them !  " 

"My  cousin  Conti  was  talking  about  the  song  only 
yesterday,   and  he  was  delighted  with  it." 

"  I  was  young  then,  sire,  and  impromptus  seemed 
easy  to  me.  I  was  alone  at  He- Adam  with  seven  charm- 
ing women.  Monsieur  le  Prince  de  Conti  hunted,  while 
I  remained  at  the  chateau  and  —  wrote  poetry.  Ah! 
those  were  the  good  old  days,   sire." 

"  Do  you  take  me  for  your  confessor,  marquis,  and  is 
this  your  confession  1  " 

"  My  confessor  ?  Ah!  yes.  Your  Majesty  is  right,  I 
had  made  an  appointment  for  this  morning  with  a 
Camaldule  at  Grosbois." 

"  Oh,  the  poor  man !  what  an  opportunity  to  learn 
something  he  has  missed !  Would  you  have  told  him 
everything,  Chauvelin  1 " 

"  Absolutely  everything,  sire. " 

"  It  would  have  been  a  long  session  in  that  case." 

"  Oh,  mon  Dieu  !  sire,  in  addition  to  my  own  sins,  I 
have  so  many  sins  of  other  people  on  my  conscience, 
especially  so  many  of — " 

"  Of  mine,  eh  ?  I  excuse  you  from  confessing  those, 
Chauvelin;  a  man  confesses  for  himself  only." 

"  Nevertheless,  sire,  sin  is  alarmingly  epidemic  at 
court.  I  no  sooner  arrive  than  I  hear  of  a  very  strange 
adventure." 

"  An  adventure,  Chauvelin ;  to  whose  account  is  it 
charged  1 " 

"  To  whose  account  are  interesting  adventures  usually 
charged,   sire  1  " 

"  Parhleu!  to  mine,  I  suppose." 

"  Or  to  the  — " 


VENUS   AND   PSYCHE.  95 

"  Or  to  the  Comtesse  du  Barry's,  eh  ?  " 

"  You  have  guessed,  sire." 

"What  do  you  say?  the  Comtesse  du  Barry  has 
sinned?     Feste!  tell  me  about  it,   Chauvelin." 

"  I  don't  say  that  the  adventure  was  exactly  a  sin  in 
itself,  I  say  that  it  came  to  my  mind  apropos  of 
sinning. " 

"  Well,  what  is  the  adventure,  marquis  ?  tell  me  at 
once," 

"  At  once,  sire  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Kings,  as  you  know,  do  not  like  to  wait.* 

"  Peste  /  it  is  a  serious  matter,  sire." 

"  Bah  !  has  she  had  some  new  dispute  with  my  grand- 
daughter-in-law  ?  " 

"  Sire,  I  do  not  say  no." 

"  Ah !  the  countess  will  end  by  falling  out  with  the 
dauphiness,   and  then,   on  my  word !  —  " 

"  I  think,  sire,  that  madame  la  comtesse  has  already 
had  a  falling  out." 

"  With  the  dauphiness  ?  " 

"  No,  but  with  another  of  your  granddaughters-in-law." 

"  The  Comtesse  de  Provence  ?  " 

"  Herself." 

"  The  devU !  I  am  in  a  pretty  pickle,  then !  Tell  me, 
Chauvelin  —  " 

"  Sire  ?  " 

"  Is  the  Comtesse  de  Provence  the  complainant  ? " 

"They  say  so." 

"  Then  the  Comte  de  Provence  is  sure  to  write  some 
outrageous  verses  on  the  poor  countess.  She  has  only  to 
keep  still,    she  will  be  lashed  in  fine  style." 

"That  will  be  simply  a  Eoland  for  an  Oliver,  sire." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  " 

"  Imagine  that  Madame  la  Marquise  de  Eosen  —  " 


96  MONSIEUR   DE   CHAUVELIN's   WILL. 

"  The  fascinating  little  brunette,  the  Comtesse  de  Pro- 
vence's friend?" 

"  Yes,  whom  Your  Majesty  has  had  your  eyes  on 
much  of  the  time  during  the  past  month." 

"  Oh !  I  have  been  scolded  sufficiently  for  that  in  a 
certain  place,  marquis !     Well  1 " 

"  Who  has  scolded  you,  sire  ?  " 

"  Pardieuf  the  countess." 

"  Very  good.  The  countess  has  scolded  you,  sire,  —  so 
far  so  good;  but  in  the  other  direction  she  has  done 
something  more  than  scold." 

"Explain  yourself,  marquis;  you  frighten  me." 

"Dame!  sire,  you  may  well  be  frightened;  I  don't 
say  you  nay." 

"  Is  it  really  serious  1 " 

"  Very  serious." 

"Speak." 

"  It  seems  that  —  ** 

"That?" 

"  You  see,  sire,  it  is  harder  to  tell  about  than  it  was  to 
do." 

"  You  really  do  alarm  me,  marquis.  Thus  far  I  have 
thought  that  you  were  joking.  But  if  something  really 
serious  has  happened  let  us  talk  seriously." 

At  that  moment  the  Due  de  Richelieu  entered  the  room. 

"  Something  new,  sire !  "  he  said,  with  a  smile  that 
was  at  once  winning  and  anxious:  winning  because  he 
wished  to  propitiate  the  king,  anxious  because  he  was 
about  to  contest  the  favor  of  this  favorite  who  had  been 
recalled  to  Versailles  after  a  single  day  of  banishment. 

"  Something  new !  where  does  it  come  from,  my  dear 
duke  ?  "  said  the  king. 

He  looked  around  and  saw  the  Marquis  de  Chauvelin 
laughing  in  his  sleeve. 


VENUS   AND   PSYCHE.  97 

"You  laugh,  heartless  man,"  he  said. 

"  Sire,  tlie  storm  is  about  to  burst ;  I  foresee  that  from 
the  melancholy  air  of  Monsieur  de  Richelieu." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  marquis.  I  announced  news,  it  is 
true,  but  I  do  not  undertake  to  tell  what  it  is." 

"  However  am  I  to  know  what  you  are  talking  about 
then?" 

"  A  page  from  Madame  de  Provence  is  in  your  ante- 
chamber with  a  letter  from  his  mistress ;  what  are  Your 
Majesty's  orders  ?  " 

"  Oho  !  "  said  the  king,  who  was  not  sorry  to  throw  the 
whole  burden  upon  Monsieur  or  Madame  de  Provence, 
whom  he  did  not  like,  "  since  when  have  the  sons  of 
France  or  their  wives  been  accustomed  to  write  to  the 
king  instead  of  presenting  themselves  at  his  lever?" 

"  Sire,  the  letter  will  probably  explain  to  Your  Majesty 
that  failure  to  observe  the  rules  of  etiquette." 

"  Take  the  letter,  duke,  and  hand  it  to  me." 

The  duke  bowed,  left  the  room,  and  returned  a  moment 
later  with  the  letter  in  his  hand. 

"  Sire, "  he  said,  handing  the  letter  to  the  king,  "  do 
not  forget  that  I  am  Madame  du  Barry's  friend,  and  that 
I  constitute  myself  her  advocate  in  advance. " 

The  king  glanced  at  Richelieu,  opened  the  letter,  and 
frowned  visibly  as  he  ran  his  eye  over  its  contents. 

"  Oh  !  this  is  too  much, "  he  muttered ;  "  and  you 
have  undertaken  to  defend  a  bad  cause,  duke.  In  very 
truth,  Madame  du  Barry  is  mad." 

He  turned  to  the  officers  of  his  household. 

"  Let  some  one  go  at  once  to  Madame  de  Rosen's  and 
inquire  for  her  health  in  my  name,  and  say  to  her  that 
I  will  receive  her  immediately  after  I  am  dressed, 
before  going  to  mass.  Poor  marchioness!  dear  little 
woman !  " 

7 


98  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

The  bystanders  exchanged  glances.  Was  a  new  star 
rising  above  the  horizon  of  royal  favor  ? 

In  truth,  nothing  was  more  likely.  The  marchioness 
was  young  and  pretty.  She  had  been  appointed  lady-in- 
waiting  to  Madame  de  Provence  a  year  before,  and  had 
become  intimate  with  the  favorite,  attending  all  her  pri- 
vate functions,  where  the  king  had  seen  her  frequently. 
But,  upon  certain  observations  on  the  part  of  the  princess, 
who  was  offended  by  that  intimacy,  she  suddenly  broke 
off  all  relations  with  Madame  du  Barry,  who  had  made 
no  secret  of  her  annoyance. 

That  is  all  that  the  court  knew. 

The  letter,  of  which  nobody  knew  the  contents,  made  a 
serious  impression  on  the  king.  He  seemed  thoughtful 
during  the  remainder  of  the  reception,  spoke  a  word  or 
two  only  to  some  of  his  particular  favorites,  hurried  the 
ceremonial,  and  dismissed  those  in  attendance  earlier  than 
usual,  after  bidding  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  not  to  go 
away. 

The  ceremony  of  the  lever  at  an  end,  everybody  de- 
parted, and  as  His  Majesty  was  informed  that  Madame 
de  Rosen  was  waiting,  he  gave  orders  to  introduce  her. 

Madame  de  Rosen's  entree  was  as  pathetic  as  possible ; 
she  was  weeping  bitterly  as  she  knelt  at  the  king's  feet. 

The  king  raised  her. 

"  Forgive  me,  sire,"  she  said,  "  for  having  made  use  of 
an  august  influence  to  obtain  access  to  Your  Majesty; 
but  really  I  was  so  desperate  — " 

"  Oh !  I  forgive  you  with  all  my  heart,  madame,  and  I 
am  obliged  to  my  grandson  for  opening  a  door  for  you, 
which  will  always  be  open  to  you  henceforth.  But  let 
us  come  down  to  the  fact, — to  the  main  point." 

The  marchioness  cast  down  her  eyes. 

"I  am  in  haste,"  continued  the  king;  "my  presence 


VENUS  AND  psycHju;.  99 

is  awaited  at  mass.  Is  what  you  write  to  me  really 
true  1  Can  it  be  that  the  countess  really  permitted  her- 
self to  —  " 

"  O  sire,  you  make  me  blush  with  shame.  I  come  to 
demand  justice  at  the  king's  hands.  Never  was  a  woman 
of  quality  so  treated. " 

"  What ! "  said  the  king,  smiling  in  spite  of  himself, 
"  treated  like  a  disobedient  child,  and  spared  no  detail  1  " 

"  Yes,  sire,  by  four  of  her  women  in  her  presence,  in 
her  boudoir,"  replied  the  young  woman,  lowering  her  eyes. 

"  Peste  !  "  rejoined  the  king,  in  whose  mind  that  last 
detail  gave  birth  to  a  multitude  of  ideas,  "  the  countess 
did  not  boast  of  that  project  beforehand.  And  how  was 
it  done  t  tell  me,  marchioness, "  he  added,  with  the  leer  of 
a  satyr. 

"  Sire, "  replied  the  young  woman,  blushing  more  and 
more,  "  she  asked  me  to  breakfast.  I  excused  myself  on 
the  ground  that  I  had  little ,  liberty,  that  my  duties  re- 
quired me  to  be  in  attendance  on  Her  Royal  Highness  at 
eight  o'clock  in  the  morning.  She  sent  word  to  me  to 
come  at  seven,  that  she  would  not  detain  me  long ;  and, 
in  fact,  sire,  I  stayed  with  her  only  half  an  hour. " 

"  You  can  set  your  mind  at  rest,  madame,  I  will  have 
an  explanation  with  the  countess,  and  justice  shall  be 
done  you.  But  I  urge  you,  in  your  own  interest,  not  to 
make  too  much  noise  over  the  incident;  above  all  things, 
let  your  husband  know  nothing  of  it.  Husbands  are 
devilish  prudes  in  such  matters." 

"  Oh !  I  beg  the  king  to  believe  that,  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  I  shall  know  enough  to  say  nothing.  But 
my  enemy,  the  countess,  —  I  am  very  sure  that  she  has 
already  boasted  to  her  intimate  friends  of  what  she  has 
done,  and  to-morrow  the  whole  court  will  know.  0  my 
God  !  my  God  !  how  wretched  I  am ! " 


100  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN's   WILL. 

And  the  marchioness  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  at  the 
risk  of  making  her  rouge  spread  with  her  tears. 

"  Have  no  fear,  marchioness, "  said  the  king.  "  The 
court  could  have  no  prettier  plaything  than  you.  And 
if  people  do  talk  about  it,  it  will  be  from  envy,  just  as 
in  Olympus  long  ago  they  talked  about  a  similar  adven- 
ture that  happened  to  Psyche.  I  know  some  of  our 
prudes  who  would  not  be  so  easily  consoled  as  you  can 
aiFord  to  be;  for  you  had  nothing  to  lose  by  it,  mar- 
chioness. " 

The  marchioness  made  a  reverence  and  blushed  still 
more,  if  such  a  thing  were  possible. 

The  king  watched  the  blush  and  devoured  the  tears. 

"  Come, "  said  he,  "  return  to  your  apartments  and  wipe 
those  pretty  eyes.  This  evening,  at  the  card-table,  we 
will  arrange  it  all ;  you  have  my  promise  to  that  effect. " 

And  with  the  gallantry  and  winning  manner  peculiar 
to  his  race,  the  king  escorted  the  young  woman  to  the 
door,  where  she  had  to  pass  through  the  throng  of  cour- 
tiers, all  of  whom  were  surprised  and  puzzled  to  the  last 
degree. 

The  Due  d'Ayen,  who  was  captain  of  the  body-guard 
in  attendance,  approached  the  king  and  bowed  low  with- 
out speaking,  awaiting  his  orders. 

"  To  mass,  Due  d'Ayen,  to  mass,  now  that  I  have  per- 
formed the  functions  of  confessor, "  said  the  king. 

"  Such  a  pretty  penitent  can  have  committed  none  but 
pretty  little  sins,  sire." 

"  Alas !  the  poor  child  !  they  are  not  her  own  sins  that 
she  is  expiating,"  pursued  the  king,  walking  along  the 
broad  gallery  toward  the  chapel. 

The  Due  d'Ayen  followed  a  step  behind  him,  near 
enough  to  hear  and  answer  him,  but  not  on  the  same  line, 
as  etiquette  demanded. 


VENUS  AND   PSYCHE.  101 

**  A  man  would  be  lucky  to  be  her  accomplice  even  in 
a  crime,  sire. " 

"  Her  sin  is  the  countess'." 

"  Oho  !  the  king  knows  all  of  those. " 

"  The  dear  countess  is  certainly  slandered.  She  is  ex- 
travagant, mad  if  you  will,  —  as  on  the  occasion  in  ques- 
tion, for  which  I  shall  give  her  a  scolding, — but  she  has 
an  excellent  heart.  It  would  be  useless  for  any  one  to 
tell  me  any  ill  of  her,  for  I  would  not  believe  it.  Par- 
bleu  !  I  know  perfectly  well  that  I  am  not  her  first  lover, 
and  that  I  succeeded  Eadix  de  Sainte-Foy  in  her  good 
graces." 

"Yes,  sire,"  replied  the  duke,  with  his  usual  malice 
enveloped  in  the  most  exquisite  courtesy,  "  as  Your 
Majesty  succeeded  Pharamond." 

The  king,  notwithstanding  his  shrewd  wit,  was  not 
strong  enough  to  contend  with  that  rough  jouster  unless 
he  lost  his  temper.  He  realized  the  absurdity  of  the 
latter  course,  and  pretended  not  to  understand.  He 
made  haste  to  address  a  word  or  two  to  a  knight  of  Saint- 
Louis  whom  he  passed.  Louis  XV.  was  good-humored 
and  easy-going;  he  overlooked  many  liberties  on  the  part 
of  his  intimate  friends,  and,  provided  that  he  was  enter- 
tained, he  cared  little  for  the  rest.  The  Due  d'Ayen  es- 
pecially possessed  the  privilege  of  saying  whatever  his 
fancy  prompted  him  to  say.  Madame  du  Barry  the 
omnipotent  had  never  dreamed  of  opposing  him;  his 
name,  his  rank,  and  his  wit  seemed  to  her  from  the  out- 
set to  make  him  unassailable. 

During  the  mass  the  king's  mind  wandered.  He 
thought  of  the  tempest  Madame  du  Barry's  latest  freak 
would  arouse  if  it  should  come  to  the  ears  of  monsieur  le 
dauphin.  That  prince  had  administered  a  just  rebuke 
only  the  day  before  to  the  countess,  who  had  insisted 


102  MONSIEUR   DE  CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

that  Vicomte  du  Barry  should  have  an  appointmeut  as 
equerry  in  his  (the  dauphin's)  household,  against  his 
will. 

"  Do  not  let  him  come  near  me,"  the  dauphin  had  said, 
"  or  I  will  have  him  driven  away  by  my  people." 

Certainly  such  a  frame  of  mind  gave  little  promise  of 
indulgence  for  such  a  vulgar  practical  joke  as  that  in 
which  the  countess  had  indulged.  Louis  XV.  left  the 
chapel,  therefore,  sorely  perplexed.  Before  going  to  the 
council,  he  betook  himself  to  the  apartments  of  madame 
la  dauphine.  He  found  her  gorgeously  attired,  with  a 
bird's  beak  in  diamonds,  beautifully  mounted,  in  her 
hair. 

"  You  have  a  marvellous  jewel  there,  madame, "  said 
the  king. 

"  Do  you  think  so,  sire  ?  How  does  it  happen  that 
Your  Majesty  does  not  recognize  it  1 " 

"I?" 

"  To  be  sure,  since  Your  Majesty  ordered  it  to  be 
brought  to  me." 

"  I  have  no  idea  what  you  mean." 

"  I  can  very  easily  explain  my  meaning.  Yesterday,  a 
jeweller  appeared  at  the  chateau  of  Versailles  with  this 
jewel,  adorned  with  fleurs-de-lis  and  the  crown  of  France, 
which  Your  Majesty  had  ordered.  Since  God  has  taken 
away  the  queen,  I  alone,  he  thought,  was  entitled  to  wear 
it.  He  brought  it  to  me,  therefore,  in  accordance  with 
your  commands  and  your  intention,  I  doubt  not." 

The  king  blushed  and  did  not  reply. 

"  Here  is  another  evil  omen, "  he  thought.  "  The 
countess  was  well  advised  to  provide  fresh  embarrass- 
ment for  me  with  her  absurd  treatment  of  the  marchion- 
ess. —  Shall  you  come  to  the  card-party  this  evening, 
madame?"  he  said  aloud. 


VENUS   AND   PSYCHE.  103 

**  If  Your  Majesty  bids  me  do  so." 

"  Bid  you,  my  child !  I  beg  you  to  come ;  you  will 
give  me  great  pleasure." 

Madame  la  dauphine  bowed  coldly.  The  king  saw  that 
he  could  not  succeed  in  making  her  unbend.  He  spoke 
of  having  to  attend  the  council  and  took  his  leave. 

"  My  children  do  not  love  me, "  he  said  to  the  Due 
d'Ayen,  who  had  not  left  him. 

"  The  king  is  in  error.  I  can  assure  Your  Majesty  that 
your  august  children  love  you  at  least  as  dearly  as  you 
love  them." 

Louis  understood  the  epigram,  but  did  not  show  that 
he  understood  it.  That  was  the  policy  he  had  adopted. 
Otherwise,  he  would  have  had  to  banish  the  Due  d'Ayen 
ten  times  a  day,  and  the  king,  after  the  ennui  caused  by 
Monsieur  de  Chauvelin's  absence,  understood  better  than 
ever  how  indispensable  the  presence  of  his  favorite  cour- 
tiers was  to  him. 

"  Bah  !  "  he  said  to  himself,  "  they  can  prick  me  all 
they  like,  they  won't  flay  me.  The  thing  will  last  as 
long  as  I  do,  and  my  successor  may  get  out  of  it  as  best 
he  can." 

Strange  recklessness,  for  which  the  ill-fated  Louis 
XVI.  was  to  pay  a  heavy  penalty! 


104  MONSIEUE  DE   CHAUVELIN'S  WILL. 


X. 

THE  king's   card-party. 

When  he  entered  the  countess'  apartments,  intending 
to  scold  her,  the  king  was  welcomed  by  an  ill-humored 
countenance  behind  Avhich  he  felt  that  a  storm  of  anger 
was  grumbling,  all  ready  to  break  out. 

Louis  XV.  was  weak.  He  dreaded  scenes,  whether 
they  came  from  his  daughters,  his  grandsons,  his 
daughters-in-law,  or  his  mistress,  and  yet,  like  all  men 
placed  between  their  mistresses  and  their  families, 
he  constantly  exposed  himself  to  them. 

On  that  day  he  proposed  to  anticipate  the  struggle 
that  was  preparing  by  providing  himself  with  an 
auxiliary. 

And  so,  after  he  had  cast  upon  the  countess  the 
single  glance  by  which  he  consulted  the  barometer  of 
her  good-humor  he  looked  all  about  the  room. 

"  Where  is  Chauvelin  ?  "  he  asked. 

"Monsieur  de  Chauvelin,  sire?"  said  the  countess. 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin." 

"  Why,  it  seems  to  me,  and  you  know  it  better  than 
any  one,  that  I  am  not  the  one  to  whom  you  should 
apply  for  news  of  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin,  sire." 

"Why  so?" 

"Why,  because  he  is  not  one  of  my  friends;  and, 
he  not  being  one  of  my  friends,  it  follows  naturally 
that  you  should  look  for  him  elsewhere  than  in  my 
apartments. " 


THE  king's  card-party.  105 

**  I  told  him  to  come  and  wait  for  me  here. " 

"Oh,  well!  he  must  have  taken  the  liberty  to  dis- 
obey the  king's  commands,  and  on  my  word!  it  was 
quite  as  well  for  him  to  disobey  you  as  to  come  here 
to  insult  me,  as  he  did  the  last  time." 

"Never  mind,  never  mind;  I  want  you  to  be  recon- 
ciled," said  the  king. 

"  To  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  ?  "  asked  the  countess. 

"  To  everybody ,  Tnorbleu  !  " 

Then,  turning  to  the  countess*  sister,  who  was 
pretending  to  amuse  herself  setting  porcelain  figures  in 
a  line  on  a  console,  — 

"Chon,"hesaid. 

"Sire." 

"Come  here,  my  child." 

Chon  drew  near  the  king. 

"  Do  me  the  favor,  little  sister,  to  send  some  one  to 
fetch  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  at  once." 

Chon  bowed  and  left  the  room  to  carry  out  the  king's 
wishes. 

Madame  du  Barry  tossed  her  head  and  turned  her 
back  on  His    Majesty. 

"  Well !  what  is  there  in  that  to  vex  you,  countess?  " 
queried  the  king. 

"Oh!  I  understand,"  she  replied,  "that  Monsieur 
de  Chauvelin  enjoys  all  your  favor,  and  that  you  could 
not  get  along  without  him.  He  is  so  desirous  to  please 
you  and  so  respectful  to  those  you  love !  " 

Louis  felt  that  the  storm  was  approaching.  He  tried 
to  cut  off  the  water-burst  with  a  cannon  shot. 

"Chauvelin,"  he  said,  "is  not  the  only  one  who 
fails  in  the  respect  due  to  me  and  to  those  who  belong 
to  me." 

*  Oh !  I   know,"  cried   Madame   du   Barry.     "Your 


10(5  MONSIEUR  DE  CHAUVELIN's   WILL. 

Parisians,  your  Parliament,  your  very  courtiers,  to  say 
nothing  of  persons  whom  I  do  not  choose  to  name,  fail 
in  respect  to  the  king  at  their  good  pleasure,  and  vie 
with  each  other  in  showing  their  lack  of  respect. " 

The  king  glanced  at  the  impertinent  young  woman 
with  a  feeling  not  wholly  exempt  from  pity. 

"Do  you  know,  countess,"  he  said,  "that  I  am  not 
immortal,  and  that  you  are  playing  a  game  that  will 
lead  to  your  being  put  in  the  Bastille  or  driven  from 
the  kingdom  as  soon  as  I  have  closed  my  eyes  ?  " 

"  Bah !  "  exclaimed  the  countess. 

"  Oh,  don't  laugh,  countess,  it  is  as  I  tell  you." 

"Keally,  sire,  how  so?  " 

"  I  will  state  the  case  in  two  words. " 

"  I  await  your  statement,  sire." 

"  What  is  this  story  of  the  Marquise  de  Rosen,  and 
what  sort  of  a  liberty,  in  the  most  execrable  taste,  did 
you  take  with  the  poor  woman  ?  Do  you  forget  that  she 
has  the  honor  to  belong  to  the  household  of  Madame 
la  Comtesse  de  Provence  1 " 

"Forget  it,  sire  !     No,  indeed." 

"  Very  well !  then  answer  me.  What  is  this  naughty 
girl's  punishment  that  you  allowed  yourself  to  inflict 
on  the  Marquise  de  Rosen  ?  " 

"I,  sire?" 

"Yes,  you,"  said  the  king  testily. 

"Well,  upon  my  word!"  cried  the  countess.  "I 
did  not  expect  to  be  blamed  for  carrying  out  Your 
Majesty's  orders." 

"  My  orders !  " 

"  Certainly.  Does  the  king  deign  to  remember  what 
reply  he  made  when  I  complained  to  him  of  the  mar- 
chioness' discourtesy  ?  " 

"  Faith  !  no,  I  have  no  idea.** 


THE  king's  cakd-party.  107 

"  Very  well  !  the  king  said  to  me :  '  What  can  you 
expect,  countess?  The  marchioness  is  a  child  who 
ought  to  be  Avhipped.'  " 

"  Morhleu  !  that  was  no  reason  for  doing  it,"  cried 
the  king,  blushing  in  spite  of  himself,  for  he  remem- 
bered that  he  had  said,  word  for  word,  what  the  countess 
had  just  repeated. 

"  Very  good  !  "  said  the  countess.  "  Your  Majesty's 
slightest  desire  being  equivalent  to  an  order  in  the  eyes 
of  his  most  devoted  servant,  she  made  haste  to  execute 
that  one  like  the  others. " 

The  king  could  not  refrain  from  laughing  at  the 
countess'  imperturbable   gravity. 

"  So  I  am  the  culprit  %  "  he  asked. 

"  To  be  sure,  sire." 

"  Then  it  is  for  me  to  expiate  the  offence." 

"  Apparently. " 

"  So  be  it.  In  that  case,  countess,  you  will  invite 
the  marchioness  to  supper  in  my  name,  and  you  will 
place  under  her  napkin  the  colonel's  commission  which 
her  husband  has  been  soliciting  for  six  months,  and 
which  I  certainly  should  not  have  given  him  so  soon 
except  for  this  incident.  In  that  way  reparation  will 
be  made  for  the  insult." 

"That  is  all  very  well!  That  takes  care  of  the 
marchioness'  insult,  but  how  about  mine?" 

"What,  yours?" 

"  Yes,  who  will  make  reparation  for  that?  " 

"  How  have  you  been  insulted,  I  pray  to  know  ?  " 

"  Oh,  this  is  charming  !  pray  feign  surprise." 

**  I  am  not  feigning  it,  my  dear  love.  I  am,  in  all 
frankness  and  seriousness,  very  much  surprised," 

"  You  have  just  come  from  madame  la  dauphine, 
have  you  not  ?  " 


108  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN's   WILL. 

"Yes." 

"  Then  you  know  very  well  the  trick  she  has  played 
me." 

"  No,  upon  my  honor  !  tell  me." 

"Well,  yesterday  my  jeweller  brought  her  a  neck- 
lace and  me  a  bird's  beak  of  diamonds  at  the  same 
time." 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  What  then ,  eh  ?  Why,  after  taking  her  necklace, 
she  asked  to  see  my  beak." 

"Aha!" 

"And  as  it  had  fleurs-de-lis  for  ornaments,  she 
said, — 

"'You  are  mistaken,  my  dear  Monsieur  Boehmer; 
that  beak  of  diamonds  is  not  for  the  countess,  but  for 
me,  and  the  proof  of  what  I  say  is  that  it  has  the  three 
fleurs-de-lis  of  France,  which,  since  the  queen's  death, 
I  alone  have  the  right  to  wear. '  " 

"  So  that  —  " 

"  So  that  the  jeweller,  being  frightened,  dared  not 
disobey  the  order  of  madame  la  dauphine  to  leave  the 
diamond  beak  with  her,  and  hurried  hither  to  inform 
me  that  my  diadem  had  caught  on  the  way." 

"  Well !  what  do  you  expect  me  to  do,  countess  1  " 

"  Do !  why,  I  want  you  to  make  her  give  me  back 
my  beak." 

"  Make  her  give  you  back  your  beak  ?  " 

«  Certainly." 

"  The  dauphiness?     You  are  mad,  my  dear." 

"What!  I  am  mad?" 

"  Yes.     I  will  give  you  another  first." 

"  Oh  !  pshaw  i  I  know  what  that  means," 


THE  king's  card-party.  109 

•  On  my  honor  as  a  gentleman  !     I  promise  you. " 

"  Yes!  and  I  shall  have  it  in  a  year,  or  in  six  months 
at  the  earliest.     How  amusing  it  is  !  " 

"  Madame,  let  this  delay  he  your  warning. " 

"  Warning  of  what  ?  " 

"  To  be  less  ambitious  in  the  future." 

"I,  ambitious?" 

"  To  be  sure.  You  know  what  Monsieur  de 
Chauvelin  said  the  other  day." 

"  Bah !  your  Chauvelin  talks  nothing  but  non- 
sense. " 

"But,  after  all,  who  authorized  you  to  wear  the  arms 
of  France  1  " 

"  What 's  that?  who  authorized  mel  why,  you." 

"I?" 

"Yes,  you!  The  monkey  you  gave  me  the  other 
day  wore  them  on  his  collar;  why  shouldn't  I  wear 
them  on  my  head  1  Oh !  but  I  know  where  it  all 
comes  from;  somebody  told  me." 

"  What  did  somebody  tell  you?     Let  us  hear." 

"  Parhleu  !  your  plans. " 

"  Well,  countess,  tell  me  what  my  plans  are.  On 
my  word  of  honor,  it  would  please  me  greatly  to  know 
them." 

"  Will  you  deny  that  there  is  a  scheme  to  marry  you 
to  the  Princesse  de  Lamballe,  and  that  Monsieur  de 
Chauvelin  and  all  the  dauphin's  and  dauphiness'  clique 
are  trying  to  drive  you  to  it?  " 

"Madame,"  replied  the  king  sternly,  "I  will  not 
deny  that  there  is  some  truth  in  what  you  say,  and  I 
will  add  that  I  might  do  much  worse.  You  know  it 
better  than  I,  countess,  for  you  have  sounded  me  about 
another  marriage. " 

That  remark  closed   the   countess'    mouth.     She  sat 


110  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAXJVELIN'S   WILL. 

down,  in  ill-humor,  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and 
broke  two  porcelain  figures. 

"  Ah !  Chauvelin  was  right,"  murmured  the  king. 
"The  crown  is  not  well  placed  in  the  hands  of 
Cupids." 

There  was  a  moment  of  sulky  silence,  during  which 
Mademoiselle  du  Barry  returned  to  the  room. 

"  Sire,"  said  she,  "  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  cannot  be 
found  anywhere.  I  was  told  that  he  was  in  his  own 
apartments,  but  I  have  rung  and  called  at  his  door  to 
no  purpose.     He  refuses  to  reply." 

"  0  mon  Dieu  !  "  cried  the  king.  "  Has  any  accident 
happened  to  him?  Is  he  ill?  Go  quickly,  quickly, 
and  order  the  door  broken  in ! " 

"Oh!  no,  sire,  he  is  not  ill,"  replied  the  countess 
sharply;  "  for,  on  leaving  the  Prince  de  Soubise  and  my 
brother  Jean  in  the  (Eil-de-Boeuf,  he  announced  that 
he  should  be  at  work  all  day  on  urgent  business,  but 
that  he  would  not  fail  to  be  at  Your  Majesty's  card- 
party  this  evening." 

The  king  took  advantage  of  what  seemed  to  be  a 
proffered  armistice  on  the  countess'  part. 

"  He  is  writing  his  confession,  perhaps,"  he  said, 
**  for  the  edification  of  his  Camaldule.  By  the  way, 
countess,"  he  added,  "do  you  know  that  Bordeu's 
medicine  is  doing  marvels?  Do  you  know  that  I  do 
not  propose  to  use  any  other?  A  fig  for  Bonnard  and 
Lamartiniere  and  all  their  dieting !  The  other  will 
make  me  young  again,  on  my  word!  " 

"Nonsense!  sire,"  said  Chon.  "Why  need  Your 
Majesty  talk  constantly  of  old  age  ?  Mon  Dieu  !  is  n't 
Your  Majesty  of  the  same  age  as  everybody  else  ?  " 

"  Well,  well !  "  cried  the  king.  "  You  are  like  that 
great  rascal  of  a  D'Aumont,  to  whom  I  was  complaining 


THE   king's   CARD-PAETY.  Ill 

the  other  day  that  I  had  no  teeth:  *  Why,  sire,'  he 
replied,  showing  me  a  jaw  like  a  porter's,  'who  does 
have  teeth  V" 

"I  have,"  said  the  countess;  "and  I  warn  you  that 
I  will  bite  you  till  the  blood  comes,  if  you  continue  to 
sacrifice  me  to  everybody  in  this  way." 

And  she  returned  and  seated  herself  beside  the  king, 
displaying  a  row  of  pearls  in  which  it  was  impossible 
to  see  a  threat. 

And  so  the  king,  defying  their  bite,  put  his  lips  to 
the  countess'  lovely  red  lips,  just  as  she  made  a  signal 
to  Chon.  Chon  picked  up  the  pieces  of  the  two 
porcelain  figures. 

"  There !  "  she  said.  "  All  that  falls  to  the  ground  is 
for  him  who  picks  it  up.  Eeally  I  think  that  Bordeu 
must  be  a  great  man,"  she  added  under  her  breath, 
as  she  cast  a  last  glance  at  the  king  and  countess. 

And  she  went  out,  leaving  her  sister  well  advanced 
on  the  path  of  reconciliation. 

The  king's  card-party  began  at  six  o'clock  in  the 
evening.  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  kept  his  promise, 
and  was  among  the  first  to  arrive.  The  countess 
appeared  in  full  court  dress,  because  of  the  presence  of 
the  dauphiness,  who  she  knew  was  to  be  there. 

The  marquis  and  the  countess  met  and  greeted  each 
other  in  the  most  friendly  way. 

"  Mon  Dieuf  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin,"  said  the 
countess,  with  one  of  those  two-edged  smiles  which 
courtiers  sharpen  so  skilfully.  "  How  red  you  are ! 
One  would  say  you  were  on  the  verge  of  an  attack  of 
apoplexy.  See  Bordeu,  marquis.  There  's  no  hope  for 
you  except  in  Bordeu." 

She  turned  to  the  king  with  a  smile  that  would  have 
led  a  pope  to  perdition. 


112  MONSIEUE  DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

.    "  Ask  the  king,"  she  said. 

Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  bowed. 

"  I  certainly  shall  not  fail  to  do  so,  madame." 

"  And  in  so  doing  you  will  fulfil  the  duty  of  a  faith- 
ful subject.  You  must  look  to  your  health,  my 
dear  marquis,  as  you  are  to  precede  by  only  two 
months  —  " 

"  I  wish  that  I  were  to  be  the  one  to  go  before  you," 
said  the  king,  "  for  then  you  would  be  sure  to  live  a 
hundred  years,  Chauvelin.  But  I  can  only  repeat  the 
countess'  advice:  consult  Bordeu,  my  friend,  consult 
Bordeu." 

"Sire,  whatever  the  hour  assigned  for  my  death, — 
and  God  alone  knows  when  any  man  is  to  die,  —  I 
promise  the  king  that  I  will  die  at  his  feet." 

"Fie,  fie!  Chauvelin,  there  are  promises  that  are 
easily  made  but  cannot  be  kept.  Ask  these  ladies  if 
it  is  not  so;  but  if  you  are  as  melancholy  as  all  that, 
my  dear  friend,  we  shall  die  of  grief  simply  from 
looking  at  you.  Come,  Chauvelin,  shall  we  play  this 
evening  1  " 

"  As  Your  Majesty  pleases." 

"  Would  you  like  to  whip  me  at  a  game  of  hombrel  " 

"  At  the  king's  service." 

They  went  to  the  tables. 

Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  and  the  king  took  their  places 
opposite  each  other  at  a  special  table. 

"Now,  Chauvelin,  keep  your  eyes  open,"  said  the 
king.  "  Be  ready  for  the  parry.  You  may  be  ill ,  but 
I  was  never  so  well  myself.  I  propose  to  be  wildly 
gay.  Look  well  to  your  money  above  all  things.  I 
have  to  pay  Rotiers  for  a  mirror  and  Boehmer  for  a 
diamond  beak." 

Madame  du  Barry  bit  her  lips. 


THE   king's   OAED-PARTY.  113 

But  the  marquis,  instead  of  replying,  ifose  painfully 
from  his  chair. 

"lb  is  very  hot,  sire,"  he  muttered. 

"True,"  replied  the  king,  who,  instead  of  losing  his 
temper  as  Louis  XIV.  would  have  done  at  this  infrac- 
tion of  the  laws  of  etiquette,  treated  the  difficulty  from 
a  selfish  point  of  view.  "  It  is  very  warm,  Chauvelin, 
but  I  thank  God  for  it,  for  the  evenings  are  cool  in  the 
month  of  April." 

The  marquis  tried  to  smile  and  picked  up  his  cards 
with  an  effort. 

"Come,  Chauvelin,"  continued  the  king.  "You  are 
hombre. " 

"Yes,  sire,"  faltered   the   marquis;  and   he   bowed. 

"  Have  you  a  good  hand  1  Let  us  see.  Ah  !  ventre 
Saint-gris,  as  my  ancestor  Henri  IV.  used  to  say,  how 
disagreeable  you  are  to-night !  " 

He  glanced  at  his  cards. 

"Ah!  my  dear  friend,"  he  said,  "  I  fancy  that  you 
are  whipped  this  time. " 

The  marquis  made  a  violent  eifort  to  speak,  and 
became  so  red  that  the  king  stopped  in  dismay. 

"  Why ,  what 's  the  matter,  Chauvelin  1  "  he  asked. 
"  Answer  me." 

Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  held  out  his  hands,  dropped 
his  cards,  drew  a  long  breath,  and  fell  face  downward 
on  the  floor. 

"  Great  heaven  !  "  exclaimed  the  king. 

"  Apoplexy  ! "  murmured  certain  officious  courtiers. 

They  lifted  the  marquis,  but  he  did  not  move  a 
muscle. 

"  Take  that  away  !  take  it  away !  "  said  the  king  in 
terror.     "  Take  it  away !  " 

He  left  the  table,  trembling  nervously,  and  seized  the 


114  MONSIEUR  DE  CHArVELIN's  WILL. 

arm  of  the  Comtesse  du  Barry,  who  led  him  away  to 
her  apartments,  nor  did  he  once  turn  his  head  to  look 
at  that  friend  from  whom,  only  the  night  before,  he 
could  not  bear  to  be  separated. 

The  king  having  left  the  room,  no  one  gave  a  thought 
to  the  lifeless  marquis. 

His  body  lay  for  some  time  hanging  over  the  back  of 
an  arm-chair,  for  they  had  raised  him  to  see  if  he  were 
dead,  and  then  had  let  him  fall  back. 

The  body  produced  a  singular  effect,  alone  in  that 
deserted  salon,  amid  the  candelabra  gleaming  with  light 
and  flowers,  filling  the  air  with  perfume. 

A  moment  later  a  man  appeared  in  the  doorway  of 
the  salon,  looked  all  around  the  room,  saw  the  marquis 
lying  on  the  chair,  approached  him,  placed  his  hand  on 
his  heart,  and  said  in  a  cold,  clear  voice,  just  as  the 
great  clock  struck  seven ,  — 

"  He  has  gone.  A  fine  death,  cordieu  I  a  fine 
death !  " 

That  man  was  the  physician  Lamartini^re. 


THE  VISION.  115 


XI. 


THE   VISION. 


On  the  morning  of  that  same  day  Pere  Delar  had  arrived 
early  at  Grosbois,  with  the  intention  of  saying  mass  at 
the  chapel,  and  of  leaving  the  praiseworthy  disposition 
the  marquis  had  shown  the  night  before  no  time  to 
cool.  But  Madame  de  Chauvelin  met  him  and  told 
him,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  all  her  apprehensions  con- 
cerning the  salvation,  already  so  endangered,  of  the 
neophyte  who  had  escaped  from  their  hands  at  the  first 
friendly  word  sent  to  him  by  the  king. 

She  kept  her  confessor  to  dinner,  in  order  to  talk 
with  him  more  at  length,  and  to  derive  from  his  wise 
advice  the  courage  she  so  much  needed  after  this  last 
disappointment. 

Madame  de  Chauvelin  and  Pere  Delar,  after  leaving 
the  table,  walked  together  in  the  park  for  a  considerable 
time,  and  had  seats  carried  to  the  shore  of  a  lovely 
pond,  in  order  to  breathe  the  cool  spring  breeze  after  a 
warm  day. 

"Reverend  father,"  said  the  marchioness,  "notwith- 
standing all  the  comforting  words  you  have  said  to  me , 
Monsieur  de  Chauvelin's  departure  causes  me  much 
anxiety.  I  know  how  attached  he  is  to  life  at  court. 
I  know  that  the  king  is  all-powerful,  not  only  over  his 
mind,  but  over  his  heart,  and  His  Majesty's  conduct  is 
so  far  from  orderliness !  I  do  not  think  it  is  a  sin  to 
speak  so,  father,  Alas  !  the  scandal  is  only  too 
public  1  " 


116  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN's   WILL. 

"I  assure  you,  madame,  that  monsieur  le  marquia 
received  a  salutary  impression.  It  was  the  first  touch. 
Time  and  Providence  will  do  the  rest.  I  was  speaking 
of  him  this  morning  to  our  reverend  prior.  He  has 
ordered  prayers  in  the  convent.  Do  you  pray,  too,  my 
daughter,  you,  who  are  most  deeply  interested  in  the 
great  work.  Let  your  children  pray.  Let  us  all  pray. 
I  offered  the  blessed  sacrifice  of  the  mass  in  the  chapel 
of  the  ch§,teau  to  that  end,  and  I  will  do  the  same 
every   day. " 

"  In  the  twenty  years  that  I  have  been  Monsieur  de 
Chauvelin's  wife,"  rejoined  the  marchioness,  "I  have 
not  let  an  hour  pass  without  asking  God  to  touch  his 
heart.  Thus  far  the  Lord  has  not  granted  my  prayers. 
I  have  lived  alone,  generally  in  sorrow  and  tears,  as 
you  know,  father.  I  have  lamented  in  solitude  errors 
which  I  could  not  combat.  God  did  not,  it  seems, 
deem  me  sufficiently  pure  to  give  me  the  victory.  I 
must  needs  suffer  still  more  to  purchase  that  blessing. 
I  will  suffer !  May  the  will  of  the  Almighty  be 
done !  " 

Meanwhile  the  children  and  their  tutor  were  at  some 
little  distance  from  the  marchioness  and  Pere  Delar, 
the  tutor  being  little  older  than  his  charges,  —  he  was 
only  eighteen ,  —  and  sharing  their  amusements. 

"Brother,"  said  the  elder,  "do  you  know  what  the 
fashionable  game  is  now  at  court  ?  " 

"  Yes,  of  course  I  do.  Father  told  me  last  night  at 
supper;  it  is  hombre." 

"  Well,  let 's  play  hombre." 

"We  can't.  In  the  first  place,  we  have  to  have 
cards,  and  in  the  second  place,  we  don't  know  how  to 
play." 

**  One  player  is  hombre." 


THE  VISION.  117 

-And  the  Other?" 

**  Dame  I  the  other  is  afraid,  I  suppose,  and  then  he 
loses."! 

"Let's  not  talk  about  cards,  brother.  You  know 
our  mother  doesn't  like  it,  and  she  says  cards  bring  bad 
luck." 

At  that  moment  Madame  de  Chauvelin  rose. 

"  Mother  is  going  into  the  park,"  said  the  younger 
boy,  looking  after  her,  "  so  she  won't  see  us.  Besides, 
monsieur  I'abbe  is  right  with  us,  and  he  would  tell  us 
if  it  were  wrong. " 

"It  is  always  wrong,"  said  the  tutor,  "to  give  pain 
to  one's  mother." 

"Oh!  but  my  father  plays  at  court,"  rejoined  the 
child,  with  the  persistent  logic  which  clings  like  all 
weaknesses  to  every  support  that  affords  a  little  conso- 
lation.    "  We  can  play  as  long  as  my  father  plays. " 

The  abbe  had  no  reply  at  hand,  and  the  child 
continued, — 

*  Look,  there  is  mother  just  bidding  Pere  Delar 
good-night.  She  's  going  toward  the  gate  with  him. 
He  must  be  going  home.  Let 's  wait.  When  P^re 
Delar  has  gone  mamma  will  go  to  her  oratory.  We 
can  go  back  to  the  chateau  behind  her,  and  we  '11  ask 
for  some  cards  and  play." 

The  children  followed  their  mother  with  their  eyes 
among  the  deepening  shadows,  where  she  gradually 
passed  out  of  sight. 

It  was  one  of  those  charming  evenings  that  precede 
the  hot  days  of  May.  The  trees,  still  leafless,  gave 
promise  of  foliage  near  at  hand  in  their  swelling 
buds.      Some,   like   the   chestnuts   and   lindens,  more 

1  There  is  no  difference  in  pronunciation  between  hombre  and 
ombre,  which  means  ghost. 


118  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN'S  WILL. 

hurried  than  the  rest,  were  beginning  to  burst  their 
envelopes  and  put  forth  the  springtime  treasures  they 
enclosed. 

The  air  was  calm  and  was  beginning  to  be  peopled 
with  the  ephemeral  creatures  that  appear  with  the 
spring  and  disappear  with  the  autumn.  They  could 
be  seen  disporting  themselves  by  thousands  in  the  last 
rays  of  the  setting  sun,  which  made  of  the  river  a 
broad  purple  and  gold  ribbon,  while  in  the  east,  that 
is  to  say ,  toward  that  portion  of  the  park  where  Madame 
de  Chauvelin  had  passed  out  of  sight,  all  objects  were 
beginning  to  lose  their  distinctive  outlines  in  that 
lovely  bluish  tint  which  belongs  only  to  certain  privi- 
leged periods  of  the  year. 

There  was  profound  tranquillity  blended  with  infinite 
splendor  throughout  all  nature. 

The  silence  was  broken  by  the  chateau  clock  strik- 
ing seven,  and  the  strokes  vibrated  a  long  while  in  the 
evening  breeze. 

Suddenly  the  marchioness,  who  was  bidding  the 
Camaldule  good-night,  uttered  a  loud  cry. 

"What  is  it?"  inquired  the  reverend  father,  retra- 
cing his  steps.  "  What  is  the  matter,  Madame  la 
Marquise  1  " 

"  Nothing,  nothing.     0  my  God  !  " 

And  the  marchioness  visibly  lost  color. 

"  But  you  cried  out.  You  certainly  felt  some  shock, 
some  sharp  pain.  Why,  at  this  moment  you  are  grow- 
ing paler  and  paler.  What  is  the  matter?  In  heaven's 
name ,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  It  is  impossible.     My  eyes  deceive  me." 

"  What  do  you  see?     Tell  me,  tell  me,  madame." 

"No,  it  is  nothing." 

The  Camaldule  persisted. 


THE   VISION.  119 

■  Nothing,  nothing,  I  tell  you,"  Madame  de  Chauvelin 
repeated,  "nothing." 

But  her  voice  died  away  on  her  lips,  and  her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  vacancy,  while  her  hand,  white  as  a 
hand  of  ivory,  rose  slowly  to  point  out  an  object  which 
the  monk  could  not  see. 

"In  God's  name,"  insisted  P^re  Delar,  "tell  me 
what  you  see." 

"  Oh !  I  do  not  see  anything.  No ,  no ;  it  is  mad- 
ness!" cried  Madame  de  Chauvelin;  "and  yet  —  oh! 
look,  pray  look !  " 

"Where?" 

"  There,  there,  do  you  see?  " 

"  I  see  nothing. " 

"  You  see  nothing  —  there,  there  1  " 

"Absolutely  nothing;  but  tell  me,  madame,  what  do 
you  see  ?  " 

"  Oh !  I  see  —  but  no,  it  is  impossible." 

"Tell  me." 

"  I  see  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  in  court  dress,  but 
very  pale  and  walking  very  slowly.  He  passed  along 
there,  over  there." 

«  My  God !  " 

"  Without  seeing  me,  do  you  understand?  Or,  even 
if  he  saw  me,  without  speaking  to  me,  which  is 
stranger  still." 

"  And  do  you  see  him  now  1  " 

"Yes." 

And  the  marchioness'  finger  and  her  eyes  indicated 
the  direction  followed  by  the  marquis,  who  was  still 
invisible  to  P6re  Delar. 

*  Where  is  he  going,  madame  ?  " 

"  Toward  the  chateau.  He  is  just  passing  the  great 
oak  jronder.     He   brushes  against  the  bench.     Look, 


120  MONSIEUE  DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

look,  he  is  going  toward  the  children.  He  turns  away 
behind  the  clump  of  trees.  He  has  disappeared.  Oh ! 
if  the  children  are  still  where  they  were,  it  was  impos- 
sible for  them  not  to  see  him. " 

At  that  instant  a  loud  cry  made  Madame  de  Chauvelin 
start.  The  cry  was  uttered  by  the  children.  It  echoed 
so  sadly  and  dismally  through  the  gathering  shadows 
that  the  marchioness  nearly  fell. 

Pere  Delar  supported  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Do  you  hear  1  "  she  murmured.     "  Do  you  hear  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Pere  Delar  replied.     "  I  did  hear  a  cry." 

Almost  instantly  the  marchioness  saw,  or  rather  felt, 
her  two  boys  running  toward  her.  Their  rapid,  breath- 
less steps  rang  out  on  the  gravelled  paths. 

"  Mother !  mother !  did  you  see  him  ?  "  cried  the 
elder. 

"  Mother !  mother !  did  you  see  ?  "  echoed  the 
younger. 

"  0  madame,  do  not  listen  to  them,"  said  the  abb^, 
running  behind  and  gasping  with  the  effort  to  overtake 
them,  their  pace  was  so  swift. 

"Well,  my  children,  what  is  it?"  queried  Madame 
de  Chauvelin. 

But  the  children  did  not  reply.  They  simply  pressed 
close  to  her  side. 

"Tell  me  what  has  happened,"  she  said,  caressing 
them.     "Speak." 

The  boys  looked  at  each  other. 

"  You  tell  her,"  said  the  elder. 

"No,  you." 

"Well,  mamma,"  said  the  elder,  "didn't  you  see 
him  just  the  same  as  we  did  ?  " 

"  Do  you  hear  ?  "  cried  the  marchioness,  raising  her 
arms  toward  heaven.     "Do  you  hear,  father?" 


THE  VISION.  121 

And  she  grasped  the  Camaldule's  trembling  hand  in 
her  own  icy  cold  ones. 

"See  whom?"  asked  the  monk,  shuddering  from 
head  to  foot. 

"  Why,  my  father,"  said  the  younger  boy.  "Didn't 
you  see  him,  mamma?  He  came  from  where  you  were, 
and  he  must  have  gone  very  near  you. " 

"Oh!  how  happy  I  am,"  said  the  elder  boy,  clap- 
ping his  hands.     "Papa  has  come  back." 

Madame  de  Chauvelin  turned  to  the  abbe. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  understanding  her  questioning 
look ,  "  I  can  assure  you  that  the  young  gentlemen  are 
mistaken  when  they  say  that  they  saw  monsieur  le  mar- 
quis. I  was  close  beside  them,  and  I  am  sure  that  no 
one  —  " 

"And  I,  monsieur, "  said  the  elder  of  the  children, 
"  tell  you  that  I  just  saw  papa  as  plainly  as  I  see  you." 

"  Fie  !  Monsieur  1' Abbe,  for  shame  !  it 's  wicked  to 
tell  a  lie !  "  said  the  younger  boy. 

"  It  is  strange  !  "  said  Pere  Delar. 

The  marchioness  shook  her  head. 

"  They  saw  nothing,  madame,"  the  tutor  repeated, — 
"nothing,  absolutely  nothing." 

"  Wait,"  said  the  marchioness. 

She  turned  to  her  sons  and  said  to  them  with  the 
gentle  maternal  accent  that  makes  God  smile ,  — 

"  My  children,  you  say  that  you  saw  your  father?  " 

"  Yes,  mamma,"  they  replied  with  one  voice. 

"  How  was  he  dressed  ?  " 

"  He  had  his  red  court  coat,  his  blue  ribbon,  a  white 
waistcoat  with  gold  embroidery,  velvet  breeches  like 
his  coat,  silk  stockings,  shoes  with  buckles,  and  a 
sword  at  his  side." 

While  the  elder  boy  thus   mentioned  the  details  of 


122  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN's   WILL. 

his  father's  costume,  the  younger  nodded  his  head 
approvingly. 

And  while  the  younger  boy  nodded  his  head  approv- 
ingly, Madame  de  Chauvelin  pressed  the  Camaldule's 
hand  with  a  more  and  more  feverish  grasp.  In  that 
same  costume  she  had  seen  her  husband  pass, 

"  And  was  there  nothing  specially  noticeable  about 
your  father  ?  " 

"  He  was  very  pale, "  said  the  older  boy. 

"Oh!  yes,  very  pale,"  echoed  the  younger.  "He 
looked  like  a  dead  man." 

Everybody  started,  mother,  tutor,  confessor,  so  notice- 
able was  the  accent  of  terror  in  the  child's  words. 

"  Where  was  he  going  ?  "  the  marchioness  asked  at 
last,  in  a  voice  which  she  tried  in  vain  to  render  firm. 

"  Toward  the  chateau,"  said  the  elder. 

"  As  I  was  running  away,  I  turned  my  head,"  added 
the  other,  "  and  I  saw  him  going  up  the  steps. " 

"  Do  you  hear  ?  Do  you  hear  1  "  the  mother  whispered 
in  the  monk's  ear. 

"Yes,  madame,  I  hear;  but  I  confess  that  I  do  not 
understand.  Why  should  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin  have 
passed  through  the  gate  on  foot,  without  stopping  to 
speak  to  you?  Why  should  he  have  passed  his  sons 
without  stopping?  Lastly,  how  can  he  have  entered 
the  chdteau  without  any  of  the  attendants  seeing  him 
and  without  asking  for  anybody  ?  " 

"  You  are  right, "  said  the  abb^.  "  What  you  say  is 
unanswerable. " 

"At  all  events,"  continued  Pkve  Delar,  "the  thing 
can  easily  be  proved." 

"  We  will  go  and  look,"  cried  the  children,  starting 
to  run  toward  the  ch§,teau. 

**  And  so  will  I,"  said  the  abb^. 


THE   VISION.  123 

"  And  I,"  murmured  the  marchioness. 

"  Madame,"  interposed  the  monk,  "  you  are  intensely 
agitated,  white  with  terror,  and  even  if  it  should  be 
Monsieur  de  Chauvelin,  —  I  admit  that  it  may  be  he, 
—  what  occasion  have  you  to  be  terrified  1  " 

"Father,"  said  the  marchioness,  looking  the  monk  in 
the  face,  "  if  he  had  come  thus  mysteriously  and  alone, 
should  you  not  consider  it  a  very  strange  proceeding?  " 

"For  that  very  reason  we  must  all  be  mistaken, 
madame.  That  is  why  we  must  believe  that  some 
stranger  has  found  his  way  into  the  grounds,  a  male- 
factor perhaps." 

"  But  a  malefactor,  however  much  of  a  malefactor  he 
may  be,"  said  the  abbe,  "has  a  body,  and  you  would 
have  seen  that  body,  father,  and  so  should  I,  whereas 
the  strange  part  of  the  whole  affair  is  that  madame  la 
marquise  and  these  young  gentlemen  saw  it,  and  that 
we  did  not  see  it." 

"No  matter,"  rejoined  the  monk.  "In  any  event, 
it  will  be  better  that  madame  la  marquise  and  her 
children  retire  to  the  orangery  while  we  go  to  the 
chateau.  We  will  call  the  servants  and  satisfy  our- 
selves as  to  what  has   happened.     Go,  madame,  go." 

The  marchioness  had  not  strength  to  resist.  She 
obeyed  mechanically,  and  withdrew  to  the  orangery 
with  her  sons,  not  having  removed  her  eyes  for  an 
instant  from  the  windows  of  the  chateau. 

"Let  us  pray,  my  sons,"  she  said,  falling  on  her 
knees,  "  for  there  is  a  soul  entreating  me  to  pray  at  this 
moment. " 

Meanwhile  the  monk  and  the  abbd  walked  toward  the 
chateau;  but  when  they  came  in  sight  of  the  main 
door  they  halted,  and  took  counsel  together  as  to  whether 
they  should   not  first  go  to  the  servants'  quarters  and 


124  MONSIEUE   DE   CHAUVELIN's   WILL. 

call  some  of  the  servants,  who  were  at  that  time 
assembled  for  supper,  to  assist  them  in  searching  the 
buildings. 

That  suggestion  was  put  forward  by  the  prudent 
Camaldule,  and  the  abbe  was  on  the  point  of  acceding 
to  it  when  a  small  door  was  thrown  open  and  Bonbonne, 
the  old  steward,  appeared,  running  toward  them  as 
rapidly  as  his  great  age  would  permit.  He  was  pale 
and  trembling,  gesticulating  wildly,  and  talking  to 
himself. 

"  What  is  it?  "  asked  the  abbe,  going  to  meet  him. 

"  0  my  God  !  my  God  !  "  cried  Bonbonne. 

"  What  has  happened  to  you  in  heaven's  name  ? " 
said  the  Camaldule. 

"  I  have  seen  a  terrible  vision. " 

The  monk  and  the  abbe  exchanged  glances. 

"  A  vision  !  "  repeated  the  monk. 

"  Nonsense  !  impossible  !  "  said  the  abb^. 

"  I  tell  you  it  is  so,"  Bonbonne  persisted. 

"  What  was  the  vision  ?     Tell  us. " 

"  Yes.     What  did  you  see  ?  " 

**  I  don't  know  yet  just  what  I  saw;  but  I  saw  —  " 

*  Explain  yourself,  pray." 

"  Well !  I  was  in  the  room  where  I  usually  work, 
below  monsieur  le  marquis'  large  study,  and  connected 
with  it,  as  you  know,  by  a  staircase  in  the  wall.  I  was 
looking  over  the  documents  again  to  make  sure  that  we 
had  overlooked  nothing  in  drawing  up  the  will,  which 
is  so  essential  to  the  future  welfare  of  the  whole  family. 
The  clock  had  just  struck  seven.  Suddenly  I  heard 
footsteps  in  the  room  overhead  which  I  locked  yester- 
day behind  monsieur  le  marquis,  and  of  which  I  had 
the  key  in  my  pocket.  I  listened.  It  was  certainly 
footsteps.     I  listened  again.     The  steps  were  certainly 


THE  VISION.  125 

over  my  head.  There  was  some  one  in  that  room  !  Nor 
was  that  all.  I  heard  some  one  open  the  drawers  in 
Monsieur  de  Chauvelin's  desk.  I  heard  some  one  move 
the  chair  that  stood  in  front  of  the  desk,  and  that,  too, 
without  any  precaution,  which  seemed  to  me  strangest 
of  all.  My  first  thought  was  that  robbers  had  broken 
into  the  chateau.  But  the  robbers  were  either  very 
imprudent  or  very  sure  of  their  game.  And  what  was 
I  to  do?  Call  the  servants?  They  were  in  their 
quarters  at  the  other  end  of  the  chateau.  While  I 
went  to  call  them  the  robbers  would  have  time  to 
escape.  I  took  my  double-barrelled  gun.  I  went  up 
the  secret  staircase  leading  from  my  office  to  monsieur 
le  marquis'  study.  I  walked  on  tiptoe.  As  I  neared 
the  top  steps  I  listened  more  and  more  intently. 
Not  only  did  I  hear  furniture  moving,  but  I  also  heard 
groaning,  coughing,  and  various  inarticulate  sounds 
that  went  to  the  very  bottom  of  my  soul ,  for  I  must  tell 
you  that  the  nearer  I  came  to  the  door  the  more  certain 
it  seemed  to  me  that  I  recognized  monsieur  le  marquis* 
voice." 

"  Strange !  "  cried  the  abb^. 

"  Strange,  indeed !  "  the  monk  assented. 

**  Go  on,  Bonbonne,  go  on." 

"At  last,"  continued  the  steward,  drawing  nearer  to 
his  two  listeners,  as  if  to  seek  a  refuge  with  them,  "  at 
last  I  looked  through  the  keyhole  and  I  saw  a  bright 
light  in  the  room,  although  it  was  quite  dark  outside 
and  the  shutters  were  closed,  closed  by  myself. " 

«  Well  ?  " 

"The  noise  continued.  There  was  a  groaning  like 
the  death-rattle.  I  had  n't  a  drop  of  blood  in  my  veins- 
However,  I  was  determined  to  go  on  to  the  end.  I 
made  an  effort.     I  placed  my  eye  at  its  post  of  obser- 


126  MONSIEUR   DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

vation  once  more,  and  I  saw  lighted  wax  candles  arranged 
about  a  coffin." 

"Oh!  you  are  mad,  my  dear  Monsieur  Bonbonne," 
said  the  monk,  shuddering  in  spite  of  himself. 

"I  saw,  I  saw,  father." 

*  But  your  eyes  deceived  you, "  said  the  abb^. 

**  I  tell  you,  monsieur  I'abbe,  that  I  saw  the  thing  as 
plainly  as  I  see  you.  I  tell  you  that  I  lost  neither  my 
presence  of  mind  nor  my  reason. " 

"  And  yet  you  fled  in  terror !  " 

"  Not  at  all.  Quite  the  contrary,  I  remained  where  I 
was,  praying  to  God  and  my  patron  saint  to  give  me 
strength.  But  suddenly  there  was  a  great  uproar.  The 
candles  went  out,  and  all  was  dark.  Not  till  then  did 
I  come  downstairs  and  out  of  doors,  and  see  you.  Now 
there  are  three  of  us.  Here  is  the  key  to  the  study. 
You  are  men  of  the  church,  and  consequently  exempt 
from  superstitious  terror.  Will  you  come  with  me? 
We  will  satisfy  ourselves  as  to  the  condition  of 
things. " 

**  Let  us  go,"  said  the  Carnal dule. 

"  Let  us  go, "  echoed  the  abbe. 

And  they  entered  the  chateau  together,  not  by  the 
small  door  which  had  given  egress  to  Bonbonne,  but  by 
the  great  door  through  which  the  marquis  had  entered. 

As  they  passed  through  the  vestibule,  in  front  of  a 
liuge  family  clock  surmounted  by  the  Chauvelin  arms, 
the  steward  raised  the  candle  he  had  just  lighted. 

"Upon  my  word,"  he  said,  "this  is  very  strange. 
Some  one  must  have  touched  that  clock  and  deranged 
the  works." 

"Why  so?" 

"  Because  it  has  been  in  the  chS,teau  since  I  was  a 
child  and  has  never  varied." 


THE  VISION.  127 

"Well?" 

"  Why,  don't  you  see  that  it  has  stopped?  " 

"  At  seven  o'clock  !  "  exclaimed  the  monk. 

"  At  seven  o'clock  !  "  echoed  the  abbe. 

And  again  they  exchanged  glances. 

"  Strange  !  "  muttered  the  abbe. 

The  monk  mumbled  some  words  which  resembled  a 
prayer. 

Then  they  ascended  the  state  staircase  and  passed 
through  the  marquis'  apartments,  which  were  closed  and 
deserted.  The  vast  rooms,  lighted  only  by  the  flicker- 
ing light  of  a  single  candle  carried  by  the  steward,  were 
solemn  and  terrifying. 

When  they  reached  the  door  of  the  study  their  hearts 
were  beating  fast.     They  stopped  and  listened. 

"  Do  you  hear  ?  "  asked  the  steward. 

"  Perfectly,"  said  the  abbe. 

"  What  ?  "  asked  the  monk. 

"  Why,  don't  you  hear  that  sort  of  rattle  like  the 
noise  made  by  a  person  in  the  death  agony  ?  ** 

"  True, "  said  the  stewaicl's  two  companions  in  one 
voice. 

"  I  was  not  mistaken  then  ?  "  said  the  steward. 

"Give  me  the  key,"  said  Pere  Delar,  crossing  him- 
self. "We  are  men,  upright  men.  Christians,  and  we 
should  fear  naught.     Let  us  go  in." 

He  opened  the  door,  and,  however  great  the  man  of 
God's  trust  in  God,  his  hand  trembled  as  he  inserted 
the  key  in  the  lock.  When  the  door  was  open,  all 
three  paused  on  the  threshold. 

The  room  was  empty. 

They  walked  slowly  into  the  vast  study,  filled  with 
books  and  pictures.  Everything  was  in  its  place, 
except   the   marquis*    portrait,    which   had  broken  the 


128  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN's   WILL. 

nail  that  held  it  and  fallen  from  the  wall,  and  was 
lying  on  the  floor,  the  canvas  being  torn  just  at  the 
head. 

The  abb^  called  the  steward's  attention  to  the  por- 
trait and  breathed  freely  again. 

"  That  was  what  caused  your  alarm,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  that  accounts  for  the  noise,"  replied  the 
steward.  "  But  the  groans  we  heard,  —  did  the  portrait 
make  them  ?  " 

"  We  certainly  did  hear  groans, "  said  the  monk. 

"And  what  is  that  on  the  table!"  cried  Bonbonne, 
suddenly. 

"  What  1  what  is  there  on  the  table  1  "  asked  the  abbd. 

"That  half -extinguished  candle,"  said  Bonbonne, 
"that  candle  which  is  still  smoking;  and  feel  of  this 
piece  of  sealing-wax,  which  is  not  yet  cold." 

"  True !  "  said  the  two  witnesses  of  that  almost 
miraculous   incident. 

"And  this  seal,"  continued  the  steward,  "which 
monsieur  le  marquis  wore  on  his  watch-chain,  and  with 
which  this  envelope  addressed  to  his  notary ,  is  sealed  I  " 

The  abbe  fell  upon  a  chair  more  dead  than  alive. 
He  had  not  the  strength  to  run  away. 

The  monk  remained  standing;  and,  without  visible 
terror,  like  a  man  who  has  severed  his  connection  with 
the  things  of  this  world,  he  tried  to  penetrate  the 
mystery  of  whose  cause  he  knew  nothing,  whose  effect 
he  saw,  but  whose  purpose  he  did  not  understand. 

Meanwhile  the  steward,  whose  devotion  to  his 
employers  gave  him  courage,  was  turning  over,  one 
after  another,  the  pages  of  the  will  he  had  copied  the 
day  before  for  his  master. 

When  he  reached  the  last  page,  the  perspiration 
stood  in  beads  upon  his  brow. 


THE   VISION.  129 

*  The  will  is  signed !"  he  murmured. 

The  abbe  leaped  from  his  chair,  the  monk  leaned 
over  the  desk,  and  the  steward  looked  from  one  to  the 
other. 

There  was  a  moment  of  awed  silence,  and  the  bravest 
of  the  three  felt  his  hair  stand  erect  upon  his  head. 

At  last  all  three  turned  their  eyes  upon  the  will. 

A  codicil  had  been  added,  the  ink  being  still  wet. 

It  was  conceived  in  these  terms :  — 

"  It  is  my  wish  that  my  body  be  interred  in  the  Carmelite 
church  on  Place  Maubert  beside  my  ancestors. 

"  Done  at  the  chateau  of  Grosbois  the  27th  of  April,  1774, 
at  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening. 

Signed:  Chauvelin." 

The  two  signatures  and  the  codicil  were  written  in  a 
hand  less  firm  than  that  of  the  body  of  the  will,  but 
were  perfectly  legible. 

"A  De  Profundis,  messieurs,"  said  the  steward, 
"  for  it  is  perfectly  evident  that  monsieur  le  marquis  is 
dead." 

The  three  men  knelt  piously  and  repeated  the  funeral 
prayer  in  unison.  After  a  few  moments  of  solemn 
meditation  they  rose. 

"  My  poor  master  !  "  said  Bonbonne.  "  He  gave  me 
his  word  to  return  and  sign  his  will,  and  he  has  kept 
his  word.     God  have  mercy  on  his  soul !  " 

The  steward  placed  the  will  in  the  envelope,  and 
taking  up  the  candle,  motioned  to  his  companions  to 
leave  the  room. 

"  There  is  nothing  more  for  us  to  do  here, "  he  said. 
"  Let  us  go  and  find  the  widow  and  orphans. " 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  give  that  package  to  the  mar- 
chioness," said  the  abbe.  "Oh!  in  heaven's  name,  do 
nothing  of  the  kind  1  " 

9 


130  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

"  Have  no  fear,"  said  the  steward.  "  This  package 
shall  not  leave  my  hands  except  to  pass  into  the 
notary's.  My  master  has  chosen  me  to  be  the  executor 
of  his  will,  as  he  has  permitted  me  to  see  what  I  have 
seen,  and  to  hear  what  I  have  heard.  I  shall  not  rest 
until  his  last  wishes  are  executed.  Then  I  will  go  and 
join  him.  Eyes  that  have  witnessed  such  things  should 
promptly  close." 

As  he  spoke,  Bonbonne,  having  gone  out  last  from 
the  study,  had  closed  and  locked  the  door.  The  three 
went  down  the  stairs,  glanced  timidly  at  the  clock 
which  had  stopped  at  seven  o'clock,  and,  passing  through 
the  door,  betook  themselves  to  the  orangery  where  the 
marchioness  and  her  children  were  waiting. 

All  three  were  still  praying,  the  mother  on  her 
knees,  the  boys  standing  beside  her. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  cried,  springing  hastily  to  her 
feet  at  sight  of  the  three  men.     "  What  is  it  ?  " 

"Continue  your  prayer,  madame,"  said  Pere  Delar. 
"  You  were  not  mistaken.  By  a  special  favor,  granted 
doubtless  to  your  piety,  God  vouchsafed  to  allow 
Monsieur  de  Chauvelin's  soul  to  come  and  say  farewell 
to  us." 

"  O  father,"  cried  the  marchioness,  raising  her  clasped 
hands  to  heaven,  "  you  see  that  my  eyes  did  not  deceive 
me!" 

Falling  once  more  upon  her  knees,  she  resumed  her 
interrupted  prayer,  motioning  to  the  children  to  follow 
her  example. 

Two  hours  later  the  sound  of  bells  was  heard  in  the 
courtyard,  causing  Madame  de  Chauvelin,  who  was  sit- 
ting between  the  beds  of  her. two  sleeping  children,  to 
raise  her  head. 

A  voice  rang  through  the  corridors,  shouting,  — 


THE  VISION.  131 

"  A  courier  from  the  king !  " 

At  the  same  moment  a  footman  entered  and  handed 
the  marchioness  a  long  document  with  a  black  seal. 

It  was  the  official  notice  that  the  marquis  had  died 
of  an  attack  of  apoplexy  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  even- 
ing, while  attending  the  king's  card-party. 


132  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 


XII. 

THE  DEATH   OF   LOUIS   XV. 

After  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin's  death  the  king  was 
rarely  seen  to  smile.  One  would  have  said  that  the 
marquis'  ghost  walked  at  his  side  wherever  he  went. 
Driving  alone  afforded  him  any  distraction.  Excur- 
sions were  multiplied.  The  king  went  from  Ramhouil- 
let  to  Compiegne,  from  Compiegne  to  Fontainebleau, 
from  Fontainebleau  to  Versailles,  but  never  to  Paris. 
The  king  had  held  Paris  in  horror  since  its  outbreak  in 
connection  with  the  baths  of  blood. 

But  all  those  beautiful  palaces,  instead  of  distracting 
his  thoughts,  carried  him  back  to  the  past,  the  past  to 
his  memories,  his  memories  to  reflection.  Madame  du 
Barry  alone  could  rouse  him  from  that  melancholy, 
bitter,  profound  reflection,  and  it  was  truly  pitiful  to 
see  the  pains  the  pretty  young  creature  took  to  instil 
some  warmth,  not  into  the  body  but  into  the  heart  of 
the  old  man. 

Meanwhile  society  was  crumbling  like  the  monarchy. 
To  the  philosophic  infiltrations  of  Voltaire,  D' Alembert, 
and  Diderot,  succeeded  the  scandalous  cloud-bursts  of 
Beaumarchais.  Beaumarchais  published  his  famous 
"Memoire"  against  Councillor  Goezmann,  and  that 
magistrate,  a  member  of  the  Maupeou  tribunal,  no 
longer  dared  appear  in  his  seat. 

Beaumarchais'  "  Barbier  de  Seville  "  was  in  process  of 
rehearsal,  and  people  were  already  talking  of  the  auda- 


THE  DEATH   OF  LOUIS   XV.  133 

cious  speeches  the  philosopher  Figaro  was  to  deliver  on 
the  stage. 

An  adventure  of  Monsieur  de  Fronsac  had  caused 
much  scandal.  Two  adventures  of  Monsieur  le  Marquis 
de  Sade  had  horrified  the  nation. 

Society  could  no  longer  be  said  to  be  walking  into 
the  abyss,  but  into  the  common  sewer. 

All  those  anecdotes  were  very  degrading  and  nauseous, 
but  they  were  the  only  ones  that  diverted  the  king. 
Monsieur  de  Sartines  made  him  a  journal  of  them, — 
another  ingenious  idea  of  Madame  du  Barry,  —  a  journal 
which  His  Majesty  read  in  the  morning  in  his  bed. 
That  journal  was  edited  in  all  the  brothels  of  Paris, 
particularly  at  the  famous  La  Gourdan's. 

One  day  the  king  learned  from  his  journal  that  Mon- 
sieur de  Lorry,  Bishop  of  Tarbes,  had  had  the  audacity 
on  the  preceding  day  to  drive  into  Paris  with  Madame 
Gourdan  and  two  of  her  boarders  in  his  open  carriage. 
That  was  too  much.  The  king  caused  the  fact  to  be 
communicated  to  the  grand  almoner,  who  summoned  the 
bishop  before  him. 

Luckily  everything  was  explained  as  the  merest 
accident,  to  the  great  glory  of  the  prelate's  modesty  and 
chastity.  On  returning  from  Versailles  the  bishop  of 
Tarbes  had  seen  three  women  standing  beside  a  broken 
carriage  on  the  high  road.  Taking  pity  upon  them  in 
their  embarrassment,  he  offered  them  seats  in  his  car- 
riage. La  Gourdan  thought  it  an  amusing  proposition 
and  accepted  it. 

But  no  one  was  willing  to  believe  in  the  pre- 
late's innocence,  and  every  one  said  to  him:  "What! 
you  don't  know  La  Gourdan?  Really,  that  is 
incredible !  " 

On  top  of  it  all  the  famous  musical  war  broke  out 


134  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN's   WILL. 

between  the  Gluckists  and  the  Piccinists.     The  court 
was  divided  into  two  factions. 

The  dauphiness,  young,  poetically  inclined,  naturally 
musical,  and  a  pupil  of  Gluck,  looked  upon  our  operas 
as  a  collection  of  ariettes,  more  or  less  graceful  and 
pleasing.  After  witnessing  Racine's  tragedies,  it 
occurred  to  her  to  send  "  Iphigenie  en  Aulide  "  to  her 
master,  and  to  request  him  to  pour  forth  the  waves  of 
his  music  upon  Racine's  harmonious  lines.  In  six 
months  the  score  was  written  and  Gluck  himself  brought 
it  to  Paris. 

Once  in  Paris  Gluck  became  the  dauphiness'  favorite, 
and  was  admitted  to  the  petits  appartements  at  all 
hours. 

One  must  accustom  one's  self  to  everything,  and 
especially  to  the  grandiose.  When  Gluck 's  music 
appeared,  it  did  not  create  the  expected  impression. 
Empty  or  tired  hearts  do  not  need  thought.  Noise  is 
enough  for  them.  Thought  is  a  bore,  noise  a  dis- 
traction. 

The  old  society  preferred  Italian  music,  the  tinkling 
bell  to  the  melodious  organ. 

Madame  du  Barry,  in  a  spirit  of  opposition,  and 
because  madame  la  dauphine  had  put  forward  German 
music,  became  the  champion  of  the  Italian  school, 
and  sent  libretti  to  Piccini.  Picciui  sent  back  scores, 
and  the  young  and  old  society  divided  into  two  camps. 

The  fact  is  that  entirely  novel  ideas  were  coming  to 
light  in  the  midst  of  that  time-worn  French  society, 
like  the  strange  flowers  that  grow  between  the  irregular 
pavements  of  a  dark  courtyard  or  between  the  crum- 
bling stones  of  an  ancient  chateau. 

They  were  English  ideas:  Gardens  with  endless 
paths,    with  clumps  of   trees,   lawns,  flower-beds,  and 


THE  DEATH   OF  LOUIS   XV.  135 

patches  of  turf;  life  in  a  cottage;  morning  excursions 
without  powder  or  rouge,  with  a  simple  straw  hat  with 
a  broad  brim  and  a  bluebell  or  marguerite  for  ornament; 
horsemen  riding  spirited  horses,  followed  by  jockeys 
in  black  caps,  round  jackets,  and  leather  breeches;  four- 
wheeled  phaetons,  which  created  a  furore;  princesses 
dressed  like  shepherdesses,  actresses  arrayed  like 
queens;  La  Duthe,  La  Guimard,  Sophie  Arnould,  La 
Prairie,  and  La  Cleophile  covering  themselves  with  dia- 
monds, while  the  dauphiness,  the  Princesse  de  Lamballe, 
Mesdames  de  Polignac,  De  Langeac,  and  D'Adhemar 
aspired  only  to  cover  themselves  with  flowers. 

And  at  the  aspect  of  that  now  society  marching  on 
to  the  unknown,  Louis  XV.  bent  his  head  lower  and 
lower.  In  vain  did  the  madcap  countess  dance  around 
him,  buzzing  like  a  bee,  light  as  a  butterfly,  gorgeous  as 
a  humming-bird.  From  time  to  time  he  painfully  raised 
his  heavy  forehead,  whereon  the  seal  of  death  seemed 
to  be  spreading  more  and  more  with  every  instant. 

Por  time  was  flying.  It  was  the  3d  of  May,  and  on 
the  28th  of  June  the  Marquis  de  Chauvelin  would 
have  been  dead  just  two  months. 

And  then,  as  if  everything  were  conspiring  to  add 
force  to  the  fateful  prediction,  the  Abbe  de  Beauvais 
had  preached  at  the  court,  and  in  his  sermon  on  the 
necessity  of  preparing  for  death,  on  the  danger  of 
impenitence  at  the  last,  he  had  exclaimed,  — 

"  Forty  days  more,  sire,  and  Nineveh  will  be 
destroyed!  " 

So  that,  after  thinking  of  Monsieur  de  Chauvelin, 
the  king  would  think  of  the  Abbe  de  Beauvais.  So 
that,  after  saying  to  the  Due  d'Ayen,  "  On  the  28th 
of  June  Chauvelin  will  have  been  dead  two  months," 
he  would  turn  to  the  Due  de  Richelieu  and  mutter, 


136  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

"Forty  days  that  devilish  Abbd  de  Beauvais  said,  did 
he  not?"  And  he  would  add,  "I  wish  that  those 
forty  days  had  passed." 

Nor  was  that  all.    The  Almanach  de  Li^ge  had  said ,  — 

"  In  the  month  of  April  one  of  the  most  favored  of 
women  will  play  her  last  role," 

So  that  Madame  du  Barry  acted  as  choras  to  the 
king's  lamentations,  and  said  of  the  month  of  April 
what  he  said  of  the  forty  days,  — 

"I  wish  that  this  cursed  month  of  April  had  passed." 

During  that  cursed  month  of  April,  which  so  alarmed 
Madame  du  Barry,  and  during  the  forty  days  which 
were  the  king's  passion,  omens  multiplied.  The 
Genoese  ambassador,  whom  the  king  met  frequently, 
died  very  suddenly.  The  Abbe  de  Laville,  having 
come  to  his  letter  to  thank  him  for  the  office  of  Director 
of  Foreign  Affairs  which  he  had  given  him,  fell  at  his 
feet  stricken  with  apoplexy.  And  lastly,  while  the  king 
was  out  hunting  the  lightning  struck  very  near  him. 

All  these  occurrences  made  him  more  and  more 
depressed. 

Some  hope  had  been  entertained  that  the  return  of 
spring  would  mend  matters.  Nature  shaking  off  her 
shroud  in  May,  the  earth  taking  on  its  robe  of  green,  the 
trees  donning  their  spring  costumes,  the  air  filled  with 
living  atoms,  the  fiery  breaths  that  pass  with  the  breezes 
like  souls  in  search  of  bodies,  —  all  those  might  well 
restore  animation  to  that  inert  mass  and  power  of  move- 
ment to  that  worn-out  machine. 

During  an  outing  at  Trianon  the  king  was  taken  ill  and 
was,  by  Lamartini^re's  orders,  removed  to  Versailles, 
where  his  disease  was  recognized  as  smallpox. 

A  malignant  fever  supervened  and  complicated  the 
situation. 


THE   DEATH   OF  LOUIS  XV.  137 

On  the  29th  of  April  the  first  eruption  appeared,  and 
the  Archbishop  of  Paris,  Christophe  de  Beaumont,  has- 
tened to  Versailles. 

It  was  a  strange  condition  of  affairs.  The  administra- 
tion of  the  sacraments,  if  it  should  become  necessary, 
could  not  take  place  until  after  the  expulsion  of  the 
concubine,  and  that  concubine,  who  belonged  to  the 
Jesuit  party  of  which  Christophe  de  Beaumont  was  the 
chief,  had,  as  the  archbishop  himself  had  said,  by  bring- 
ing about  the  overthrow  of  Choiseul  and  the  parliament, 
rendered  such  great  services  to  the  religion,  that  it  was 
impossible  in  accordance  with  the  canons  to  inflict  dis- 
honor upon  her. 

The  leading  spirits  in  that  party  were,  beside  Monsieur 
de  Beaumont  and  Madame  du  Barry,  the  Due  d'Aiguil- 
lon,  the  Due  de  Richelieu,  the  Due  de  Fronsac,  Maupeou, 
and  Terray. 

All  of  them  would  be  overthrown  by  the  same  blow 
that  overthrew  Madame  du  Barry.  They  had  no  motive 
therefore  for  declaring  themselves  against  her. 

Monsieur  de  Choiseul's  party,  on  the  other  hand, 
which  had  ramifications  everywhere,  even  at  the  king's 
bedside,  demanded  the  expulsion  of  the  favorite  and  a 
speedy  confession.  A  very  curious  spectacle  was  thus 
presented,  for  it  was  the  party  of  the  philosophes,  the 
Jausenists,  and  atheists  which  urged  the  king  to  confess, 
while  the  Archbishop  of  Paris,  the  pious  folk,  and  the 
devotees  desired  him  to  refuse  to  confess. 

Such  was  the  strange  condition  of  affairs  when  the 
archbishop  presented  himself  on  the  1st  of  May,  at  half- 
past  eleven  in  the  morning,  and  asked  to  see  the  sick 
king. 

On  learning  that  the  archbishop  had  arrived,  poor 
Madame  du  Barry  fled. 


138  MONSIEUR   DE   CHAUYELIN'S   WILL. 

The  Due  de  Eichelieu  went  to  meet  the  prelate ,  whose 
intentions  were  as  yet  unknown  to  him. 

"  Monseigneur, "  said  the  duke,  "  I  entreat  you  not  to 
alarm  the  king  by  the  theological  proposition  that  has 
frightened  so  many  sick  people  to  death.  But  if  you  are 
curious  to  hear  about  some  charming  little  sins,  sit  you 
down  there;  I  will  confess  in  the  king's  stead,  and  will 
tell  you  of  some,  the  like  of  which  you  have  not  heard 
since  you  have  been  Archbisliop  of  Paris.  But  if  my 
suggestion  does  not  commend  itself  to  you,  if  you  abso- 
lutely insist  on  confessing  the  king  and  repeating  at  Ver- 
sailles the  scenes  in  which  Monsieur  the  Bishop  of  Sois- 
sons  took  part  at  Metz,  if  you  propose  to  dismiss  Madame 
du  Barry  with  notoriety,  consider  the  sequel  and  your 
own  interests.  You  assure  the  triumph  of  the  Due  de 
Choiseul,  your  bitterest  enemy,  from  whom  Madame  du 
Barry  was  instrumental  in  delivering  you,  and  you  per- 
secute your  friend  to  the  profit  of  your  enemy,  —  yes,  mon- 
seigneur, your  friend,  and  so  truly  your  friend  that  only 
yesterday  she  said  to  me,  '  If  the  archbishop  will  leave 
us  in  peace  he  shall  have  his  cardinal's  cap;  I  will 
undertake  to  procure  it  for  him  and  will  answer  for  the 
result.'  " 

The  Archbishop  of  Paris  allowed  Monsieur  de  Richelieu 
to  say  what  he  had  to  say,  for  although  he  really  agreed 
with  him,  it  was  essential  that  he  should  seem  to  yield  to 
argument.  Luckily  the  Due  d'Aumont,  Madame  Ade- 
laide, and  the  Bishop  of  Senlis  joined  forces  with  the  mar- 
shal and  furnished  the  prelate  with  arms  against  himself. 
He  seemed  to  yield,  promised  to  say  nothing,  entered 
the  king's  apartments,  and  did  not  mention  the  subject  of 
confession;  which  was  so  satisfactory  to  the  august 
patient  that  he  immediately  sent  for  Madame  du  Barry 
to  return,  and  kissed  her  fair  hands,  weeping  for  joy. 


THE   DEATH  OF  LOUIS   XV.  139 

On  the  next  day,  May  2d,  the  king  was  slightly 
better;  Madame  du  Barry  had  sent  him  her  two  physi- 
cians, Lorry  and  Bordeu,  instead  of  Lamartiniere,  his 
regular  physician.  They  had  been  instructed  first  of  all 
to  conceal  from  the  king  the  nature  of  his  disease,  to  say 
nothing  as  to  his  condition,  and  especially  to  banish  from 
liis  mind  any  such  idea  as  that  he  was  sick  enough  to 
need  to  have  recourse  to  the  priests. 

The  improvement  in  the  king's  health  allowed  the 
countess  to  resume  for  a  brief  space  her  free  and  easy 
manners,  her  usual  mode  of  speech  and  her  customary 
endearments.  But  at  the  very  moment  when,  by  putting 
forth  her  whole  store  of  animal  spirits,  she  had  succeeded 
in  making  the  king  smile,  Lamartiniere,  who  had  not 
been  deprived  of  his  right  of  access  to  the  king's  pres- 
ence, appeared  in  the  doorway,  and,  being  highly  indig- 
nant at  the  preference  accorded  Lorry  and  Bordeu, 
walked  straight  to  the  king's  side,  felt  his  pulse,  and 
shook  his  head. 

The  king  made  no  objection,  and  watched  him  with 
terror.  His  terror  increased  when  he  saw  Lamartiniere 's 
discouraging  motion. 

"  Well,  Lamartiniere  1  "  he  asked. 

"  Well,  sire,  if  my  brethren  have  not  told  you  that  you 
are  seriously  ill,  they  are  either  fools  or  liars." 

"  What  do  you  think  is  the  matter  with  me,  La- 
martiniere ?  " 

"  Pardieu !  sire,  it  is  not  hard  to  tell :  Your  Majesty 
has  the  smallpox." 

"  And  you  say  you  have  no  hope,  my  friend  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  say  that,  sire ;  a  doctor  never  despairs.  I 
say  simply  that  if  Your  Majesty  is  not  the  Most  Christian 
King  in  name  only,  you  should  look  to  yourself." 

"  Very  good, "  said  the  king. 


140  MONSIEUE  DE  CHAUVELIN'S  WILL. 

He  called  Madame  du  Barry. 

"You  hear,  my  love,"  he  said,  "I  have  the  small- 
pox, and  it  is  a  very  dangerous  disease,  firstly,  because 
of  my  age,  and  secondly,  because  of  my  other  troubles. 
Lamartiniere  has  just  reminded  me  that  I  am  the  Most 
Christian  King  and  the  oldest  son  of  the  Church,  my  love. 
Perhaps  we  shall  have  to  separate.  I  wish  to  prevent  a 
scene  like  the  one  at  Metz.  Tell  the  Due  d'Aiguillon 
what  I  say  to  you,  so  that  you  and  he  can  arrange  for  our 
parting  quietly  if  I  grow  worse. " 

When  the  king  was  speaking  thus,  the  whole  Choiseul 
faction  was  beginning  to  complain  aloud,  accusing  the 
archbishop  of  complaisance,  and  saying  that  he  would 
allow  the  king  to  die  without  the  sacraments  in  order  not 
to  disturb  Madame  du  Barry. 

These  charges  reached  Monsieur  de  Beaumont's  ears, 
and  he,  in  order  to  put  an  end  to  them,  determined  to 
take  up  his  residence  at  Versailles,  in  the  convent  of  the 
Lazarists,  to  make  an  impression  on  the  public,  and  be  in 
a  position  to  take  advantage  of  the  most  favorable  mo- 
ment for  his  religious  ceremonies,  in  order  not  to  sacrifice 
Madame  du  Barry  until  the  king's  condition  should  be 
altogether  desperate. 

It  was  on  the  3d  of  May  that  the  archbishop  returned 
to  Versailles.     Having  arrived  there,  he  waited. 

Meanwhile,  scandalous  scenes  were  being  enacted  at  the 
king's  bedside.  The  Cardinal  de  la  Eoche-Aymon  was  of 
the  same  mind  as  the  Archbishop  of  Paris,  and  desired 
that  everything  should  be  done  quietly ;  but  it  was  not  so 
with  the  Bishop  of  Carcassonne,  who  played  the  zealot, 
renewing  the  scene  at  Metz  years  before,  and  crying  from 
the  housetops  that  the  sacraments  must  be  administered 
to  the  king,  that  the  concubine  must  be  driven  forth, 
that  the  canons  o^  the  church  must  be  enforced,  and 


THE   DEATH   OF  LOUIS   XV.  141 

that  the  king  must  set  an  example  to  Europe  and  Chiris- 
tian  France,  which  he  had  scandalized. 

"  What  right  have  you  to  force  your  opinions  on  me  ? " 
cried  Monsieur  de  la  Roche- Aymon,  testily. 

The  bishop  took  the  pastoral  cross  from  his  neck  and 
put  it  almost  imder  the  prelate's  nose, 

"  The  right  that  this  cross  gives  me,"  he  said.  "  Learn 
to  respect  that  right,  monseigneur,  and  do  not  allow  your 
king  to  die  without  the  sacraments  of  the  church,  whose 
eldest  son  he  is." 

All  this  took  place  in  Monsieur  d'Aiguillon's  presence. 
He  realized  what  scandal  such  a  discussion  would  cause  if 
it  should  become  public. 

He  entered  the  king's  apartment. 

"  Well,  duke,  have  you  carried  out  my  orders  ?  '* 

"  With  regard  to  Madame  du  Barry,  sire  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  I  preferred  to  wait  until  Your  Majesty  should  repeat 
them.  I  shall  never  be  in  haste  to  separate  the  king 
from  those  who  love  him." 

"  Thanks,  duke,  but  it  must  be  done.  Take  the  poor 
countess  and  escort  her  quietly  to  your  country  estate  at 
Rueil.  I  shall  be  grateful  to  Madame  d'Aiguillon  for 
any  attention  she  may  show  her." 

Despite  that  very  explicit  command.  Monsieur  d'Aiguil- 
lon was  still  loath  to  hasten  the  favorite's  departure,  and 
concealed  her  in  the  chateau,  announcing  that  she  was  to 
go  on  the  following  day.  That  announcement  moderated 
the  ecclesiastical  exigencies  to  some  extent. 

It  was  a  happy  idea  on  the  Due  d'Aiguillon's  part,  as 
it  turned  out,  to  keep  Madame  du  Barry  at  Versailles, 
for,  during  the  day  of  the  fourth  of  May,  the  king  asked 
for  her  so  persistently  that  the  duke  confessed  that  she 
was  still  there. 


142  MONSIETJE  DE   CHAUVELIN'S   WILL. 

"  Send  for  her,  then,  send  for  her, "  cried  the  king. 

And  so  Madame  du  Barry  returned  to  the  bedside  foi 
the  last  time. 

The  countess  left  Versailles  weeping  bitterly.  The 
poor  creature,  who  was  good-hearted,  amiable,  and  easy- 
going, loved  Louis  XV.  as  one  loves  a  father. 

Madame  d'Aiguillon  took  Madame  du  Barry  and  her 
sister  Mademoiselle  du  Barry  in  her  carriage,  and  drove 
them  to  Rueil  to  await  the  result. 

She  was  hardly  out  of  the  courtyard,  when  the  king 
asked  for  her  again. 

"  She  has  gone, "  he  was  told. 

"  Gone  ? "  echoed  the  king ;  "  then  it  is  time  for  me  to 
go  too.     Order  prayers  to  be  said  at  Sainte-Gdnevieve. " 

Monsieur  de  la  Vrilliere  at  once  wrote  to  the  parlia- 
ment, which  body  had  the  right,  in  extreme  cases,  to 
order  the  ancient  relic  to  be  opened  or  closed. 

The  5th  and  6th  of  May  passed  without  any  mention 
of  confession,  viaticum,  or  extreme  unction.  The  curd  of 
Versailles  presented  himself  with  the  purpose  of  prepar- 
ing the  king  for  that  pious  ceremony ;  but  he  fell  in  with 
the  Due  de  Fronsac,  who  gave  him  his  word  as  a  gentle- 
man that  he  would  throw  him  out  of  the  window  at  the 
first  word  he  uttered  on  the  subject. 

"  If  I  am  not  killed  by  the  fall,  I  shall  come  in  again 
at  the  door, "  said  the  curd,  "  for  it  is  ray  right." 

But  on  the  7th,  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the 
king  himself  imperatively  demanded  tlie  presence  of  Abbd 
Mandoux,  a  poor  priest  with  no  taste  for  intrigue,  a  worthy 
ecclesiastic  who  had  been  given  him  for  a  confessot',  and 
who  was  blind. 

His  confession  lasted  seventeen  minutes. 

The  confession  at  an  end,  the  Dues  de  la  Vrilliere  and 
D'Aiguillon  attempted  to  delay  the  viaticum,  but  Lamar* 


THE   DEATH   OF  LOTJIS   XT.  143 

tini^re,  who  had  a  special  enmity  against  Madame  du 
Barry  because  she  had  induced  the  king  to  take  up  with 
Lorry  and  Bordeu,  approached  the  king  and  said :  — 

"  I  have  seen  Your  Majesty  in  very  difficult  positions, 
sire,  but  I  have  never  admired  you  as  I  do  to-day.  If  you 
follow  my  advice  you  will  finish  at  once  what  you  have 
begun  so  well." 

Thereupon  the  king  ordered  Mandoux  to  be  recalled, 
and  Mandoux  gave  him  absolution. 

As  for  the  notorious  atonement  that  was  to  crush 
Madame  du  Barry  in  solemn  form,  it  was  not  mentioned. 
The  grand  almoner  and  the  archbishop  had  agreed  upon 
this  formula  which  was  proclaimed  in  presence  of  the 
sacred  host :  — 

Although  the  Icing  need  account  for  his  conduct  to 
God  alone,  he  declares  that  he  repents  having  caused 
scandal  among  his  subjects,  and  that  he  desires  to  live 
henceforth  only  to  maintain  the  religion  and  the  hap- 
piness of  his  people. 

The  royal  family,  increased  by  Madame  Louise,  who 
had  come  forth  from  her  convent  to  care  for  her  father, 
received  the  sacrament  at  the  foot  of  the  staircase. 

While  the  king  was  receiving  the  sacraments,  the 
dauphin,  who  was  kept  at  a  distance  because  he  had  not 
had  the  smallpox,  wrote  as  follows  to  Abbe  Terray :  — 

"Monsieur  le  Contr6leur-G^n:^ral, — I  beg  you  to 
cause  two  hundred  thousand  francs  to  be  distributed  among 
the  poor  in  the  various  parishes  of  Paris,  to  pray  for  the 
king.  If  you  deem  this  too  much,  deduct  it  from  the  allow- 
ances of  madame  la  dauphine  and  myself. 

Signed:       Louis-Auguste." 

During  the  7th  and  8th  the  patient  grew  worse.  The 
king  felt  that  his  body  was  literally  being  torn  in  strips. 


144  MONSIEUR  DE   CHAUVELIN's  WILL. 

Abandoned  by  his  courtiers,  who  dared  not  remain  beside 
that  living  corpse,  he  had  no  other  attendants  than  his 
three  daughters,  who  did  not  leave  him  for  an  instant. 

The  king  was  terrified.  In  the  horrible  gangrene  that 
attacked  his  whole  body  he  Saw  a  direct  chastisement  of 
heaven.  To  his  mind  the  invisible  hand  that  marked 
him  with  black  spots  was  God's  hand.  In  an  access  of 
delirium,  all  the  more  terrible  because  it  was  not  the 
delirium  of  fever  but  of  the  thought,  he  saw  flames,  he 
saw  the  burning  pit,  and  he  called  to  his  confessor,  the 
poor  blind  priest,  his  only  refuge,  to  hold  the  crucifix 
between  him  and  the  fiery  lake.  Then  he  would  him- 
self take  the  holy  water,  he  himself  would  raise  sheets 
and  coverlids,  he  himself,  with  groans  of  terror,  would 
pour  the  holy  water  over  his  whole  body,  then  he  would 
demand  the  crucifix,  take  it  in  both  hands,  kiss  it  fer- 
vently, and  cry :  "  0  Lord !  Lord !  intercede  for  me,  the 
greatest  sinner  that  ever  lived." 

In  such  terrible  despairing  agony  he  passed  the  whole 
day  of  the  9th.  During  that  day,  which  was  naught 
but  one  long  confession,  neither  the  priest  nor  his  daugh- 
ters left  him.  His  body  was  eaten  by  the  most  disgust- 
ing gangrene,  and  the  corpse  like  king,  still  living, 
exhaled  such  an  odor  that  two  servants  fell  to  the  floor 
asphyxiated,   and  one  of  them  died. 

On  the  10th,  in  the  morning,  his  thigh-bones  could  be 
seen  through  the  cracks  in  the  flesh ;  three  other  servants 
fainted.  Terror  invaded  Versailles.  The  whole  house- 
hold fled.  There  were  no  living  beings  in  the  palace 
save  the  three  noble-hearted  girls  and  the  excellent 
priest. 

The  whole  day  of  the  10th  was  one  long  agony.  The 
king,  already  dead,  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  die ; 
you  would  have  said  that  he  was  trying  to  throw  himself 


THE   DEATH   OF  LOUIS   XV.  145 

out  of  bed,  anticipating  the  fall.  At  last,  at  five 
minutes  to  three,  he  drew  himself  up,  held  out  his 
hands,  fixed  his  eyes  upon  a  certain  point  of  the  wall 
and  cried :  — 

"  Chauvelin !  Chauvelin  !  it  is  not  two  months  yet  —  " 
Then  he  fell  back  and  died. 

Great  as  was  the  courage  with  which  God  had  filled 
the  hearts  of  the  three  princesses  and  the  priest,  when 
tlie  king  was  dead  they  deemed  their  task  at  an  end; 
furthermore,  all  three  of  the  princesses  were  infected 
with  the  disease  that  had  killed  the  king. 

The  arrangements  for  the  obsequies  were  intrusted  to 
the  grand  master,  who  arranged  everything  without 
entering  the  palace. 

No  one  could  be  found  save  the  night-cart  men  of  Ver- 
sailles who  dared  place  the  king  in  the  leaden  coffin 
which  was  prepared  for  him.  He  was  laid  in  that  last 
abode,  without  ointment  or  essences,  roUed  in  the 
sheets  of  the  bed  in  which  he  died;  then  the  leaden 
coffin  was  placed  in  a  wooden  casket  and  carried  into  the 
chapel. 

On  the  12th  of  May,  what  had  been  Louis  XV.  was 
taken  to  Saint-Denis ;  the  coffin  was  in  a  large  hunting 
.carriage.  A  second  carriage  was  occupied  by  the  Due 
d'Ayen  and  the  Due  d'Aumont;  in  the  third  were  the 
grand  almoner  and  the  cure  of  Versailles.  The  funeral 
procession  consisted  of  a  score  of  pages  and  about  fifty 
grooms  on  horseback. 

The  cortege  started  from  Versailles  at  eight  in  the 
evening  and  arrived  at  Saint-Denis  at  eleven.  The  body 
was  lowered  into  the  P^/al  vault  whence  it  was  not  to 
come  forth  until  the  day  of  the  profanation  of  Saint- 
Denis,  and  the  entrance  to  the  vault  was  not  only  closed 
but  caulked,    so  that  no   emanation  from  that  human 

10 


146  MONSIEUR  DE  CHAUVELIN's  WILL. 

carrion  should  make  its  way  from  the  abode  of  the  dead 
into  the  abodes  of  the  living. 

We  have  described  elsewhere  the  glee  of  the  Parisian 
populace  at  the  death  of  Louis  XIV.  Their  glee  was  no 
less  great  when  they  found  that  they  were  rid  of  him 
whom  they  had,  thirty  years  earlier,  named  the  Well- 
Beloved. 

Some  one  rallied  the  cure  of  Sainte-Genevieve  concern- 
ing the  efficacy  of  the  relic. 

"  What  do  you  complain  of  ? "  he  retorted.  "  Is  he  not 
dead?" 

On  the  next  day,  Madame  du  Barry  at  Rueil  received 
a  letter  of  banishment. 

Sophie  Arnould  learned  at  the  same  time  of  the  king's 
death  and  the  banishment  of  the  favorite, 

"  Alas ! "  said  she,  "  we  have  no  father  or  mother 
now. " 

That  was  the  only  funeral  discourse  pronounced  over 
the  tomb  of  the  grandson  of  Louis  XIV. 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET 
NECKLACE. 


LIST  OF  CHARACTERS. 

Period,  1793. 


EeNST  TheODOR  WUiHELM  HoPFMANN. 

Sophia,  his  aunt. 

Zacharias  Wekner,  his  friend. 

Gottlieb  Murr,  leader  of  the  orchestra  at  the  Mannheim 

Theatre. 
Antonia,  his  daughter. 
Danton. 
Robespierre. 

COMTESSE  DU  BaRRY. 

Citizen  Fouquier,  public  prosecutor  at  Paris. 
An  Executioner. 

The  Landlady  op  the  Quai  aux  Fleurs. 
Monsieur  Vestris,  of  the  Theatre  de  la  Porte  Saint-Martin. 
ArsJine,  a  danseuse,  mistress  of  Danton. 
EucHARis,  her  maid. 

The  Physician  to  the  Of£ba.  at  the  Poete  Saint-Martin 
Theatre. 


THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET 
NECKLACE. 


I. 

THE  ARSEKAL. 

On  the  4th  of  December,  1846,  my  vessel  having  cast 
anchor  on  the  preceding  day  in  the  Bay  of  Tunis,  I 
awoke  about  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  conscious  of 
one  of  those  lowering  clouds  of  profound  melancholy 
which  keep  the  eye  moist  and  the  breast  swollen  for  a 
whole  day. 

That  feeling  was  the  result  of  a  dream. 

I  jumped  out  of  my  bunk,  I  drew  on  a  pair  of 
trousers  with  feet,  I  went  on  deck,  and  I  looked  about 
me. 

I  hoped  that  the  marvellous  landscape  that  was 
exposed  to  my  gaze  would  relieve  my  mind  from  its 
preoccupation,  which  was  the  more  obstinate  for  the 
very  reason  that  it  had  no  real  cause. 

I  had  in  front  of  me,  within  gunshot,  the  jetty 
extending  from  the  Goletta  fort  to  the  fort  of  the 
Arsenal,  leaving  a  narrow  passage  for  vessels  which 
desire  to  go  from  the  gulf  into  the  lake.  This  lake, 
whose  waters  are  as  blue  as  the  azure  of  the  heavens 
they  reflect,  was  ruffled  in  certain  places  by  the  flap- 
ping  wings   of  a  flock   of   swans^  while,  upon  stakes 


150   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

planted  at  intervals  to  indicate  shoal  places,  stood  an 
occasional  cormorant,  perfectly  motionless,  like  the 
birds  we  see  carved  on  sepulchres.  Suddenly  he  would 
let  himself  fall  like  a  stone,  dive  for  his  prey,  return 
to  the  surface  with  a  fish  in  his  beak,  swallow  the  fish, 
remount  his  stake,  and  resume  his  silent  immobility 
until  another  fish,  passing  within  range,  tempted  his 
appetite,  and,  overcoming  his  indolence,  caused  him  to 
disappear  and  reappear  once  more. 

Meanwhile,  at  intervals  of  five  minutes,  the  air 
would  be  streaked  by  a  long  file  of  flamingoes,  whose 
diamond-shaped  purple  wings  showed  dark  against  the 
dull  white  of  their  bodies,  and  made  them  resemble  a 
pack  of  cards  composed  entirely  of  aces  of  diamonds 
flying  through  the  air  in  a  single  line. 

On  the  horizon  was  Tunis,  that  is  to  say,  a  mass  of 
square  houses,  without  windows  or  openings  of  any 
sort,  arranged  like  the  seats  of  an  amphitheatre,  white 
as  chalk,  and  outlined  against  the  sky  with  extraordi- 
nary sharpness.  On  the  left,  like  a  vast  crenellated 
wall,  rose  the  Lead  Mountains,  whose  name  indicates 
their  sombre  color.  At  their  feet  crouched  the  mosque 
and  village  of  Sidi-Fathallah.  On  the  right  could  be 
distinguished  the  tomb  of  Saint-Louis  and  the  spot 
where  Carthage  was,  two  of  the  grandest  memorials  in 
the  history  of  the  world.  Astern  of  us  the  Montezuma 
rode  at  anchor,  a  magnificent  steam  frigate,  with  engines 
of  four  hundred  and  fifty  horse  power. 

Certainly  there  was  enough  to  divert  the  most  pre- 
occupied imagination.  At  sight  of  all  that  wealth  of 
beauty  one  might  well  have  forgotten  yesterday,  to-day, 
and  to-morrow.  But  my  mind  was  ten  years  away, 
fixed  obstinately  upon  a  single  thought  which  a  dream 
had  nailed  in  my  brain. 


THE   ARSENAL.  151 

My  eye  became  fixed  on  vacancy.  All  that  magnifi- 
cent panorama  gradually  faded  away  as  my  gaze  grew 
more  and  more  vague.  Soon  I  had  ceased  to  see  every- 
thing that  really  existed.  Reality  disappeared,  and 
amid  that  misty  void,  as  if  beneath  a  fairy's  wand, 
appeared  a  salon  with  white  wainscoting,  and  in  a 
recess,  seated  at  a  piano  over  which  her  fingers  wandered 
carelessly,  was  a  woman,  at  once  inspired  and  pensive, 
a  muse  and  a  saint.  I  recognized  that  woman,  and 
I  murmured  as  if  she  could  hear  me, — 

"  I  salute  you,  Marie,  full  of  grace.  My  mind  is 
with  you." 

And  then,  no  longer  trying  to  resist  that  white- 
winged  angel  who,  like  a  beautiful  vision,  carrying  me 
back  to  the  days  of  my  youth,  revealed  to  me  the  pure 
features  of  that  maiden,  young  wife,  and  mother,  I 
yielded  to  the  current  of  the  stream  called  memory, 
which  flows  back  to  the  past  instead  of  flowing  on- 
ward to  the  future. 

Thereupon  I  was  seized  by  that  selfish  impulse  — 
selfish  and  consequently  natural  to  man  —  which  impels 
him  not  to  keep  a  thought  to  himself,  but  to  double  the 
scope  of  his  feelings  by  communicating  them,  and  to 
pour  into  another  heart  the  fluid,  be  it  sweet  or  bitter, 
with  which  his  own  is  filled. 

I  took  a  pen  and  I  wrote,  — 

"  On  board  the  Veloce,  in  sight  of  Carthage  and  Tunis. 

December  4, 1 846. 

"  Madame,  —  Upon  opening  a  letter  dated  from  Carthage 
and  Tunis,  you  will  wonder  who  can  have  written  to  you 
from  such  a  spot,  and  you  will  hope  perhaps  to  receive  an 
autograph  of  Regulus  or  Louis  IX.  Alas  !  madame,  he  who 
from  so  great  a  distance  lays  his  humble  souvenir  at  your 
feet  is  neither  a  hero  nor  a  saint,  and  if  he  has  ever  shown 


152      THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE   VELVET   NECKLACE. 

any  resemblance  to  the  Bishop  of  Hippone,  whose  tomb  he 
visited  three  days  since,  that  resemblance  can  be  applicable 
only  to  the  first  part  of  that  great  man's  life.  It  is  true  that, 
like  him,  he  may  redeem  that  first  part  of  his  life  by  the 
second.  But  it  is  very  late  already  to  do  penance,  and,  in 
all  probability,  he  will  die  as  he  has  lived,  not  daring  even 
to  leave  his  confessions  behind  him,  for  while  they  might 
possibly  bear  being  told,  they  could  hardly  be  read. 

"  You  have  already  turned  to  the  signature,  have  you  not, 
madame,  and  you  know  whom  you  have  to  deal  with ;  so  that 
now  you  are  asking  yourself  how  it  happened  that  the  author 
of  '  Monte  Cristo '  and  '  Les  Mousquetaires,*  standing  be- 
tween this  magnificent  lake  which  is  the  grave  of  a  city  and 
the  poor  monument  which  is  a  king's  sepulchre,  thought  of 
writing  to  you,  — to  you,  when  at  Paris,  at  your  very  door,  he 
sometimes  does  not  call  upon  you  for  a  whole  year  at  a  time. 

"  In  the  first  place,  madame,  Paris  is  Paris,  that  is  to  say,  a 
sort  of  whirlpool,  where  one  loses  the  memory  of  everything 
amid  the  noise  that  the  people  make  in  running  to  and  fro, 
and  the  earth  in  revolving.  At  Paris,  you  see,  I  do  as  the 
rest  of  the  world  and  the  earth  do ;  I  run  to  and  fro  and 
revolve,  to  say  nothing  of  the  fact  that,  when  I  am  neither 
running  nor  revolving,  I  am  writing.  But  then,  madame,  it 
is  a  different  matter,  and  when  I  am  writing  I  am  not  so 
entirely  apart  from  you  as  you  think,  for  you  are  one  of  the 
few  persons  for  whom  I  write,  and  it  is  a  very  unusual  thing, 
if  I  do  not  say  to  myself  when  I  finish  a  chapter  that  pleases 
me,  or  a  book  that  is  well  received,  '  Marie  Nodier,  that 
creature  of  rare  and  charming  mind,  will  read  that ; '  and  I 
am  proud  when  I  say  it,  madame,  for  I  hope  that  after  you 
have  read  what  I  have  written,  I  may  perhaps  grow  a  little 
taller  in  your  mind. 

"  But  to  return  to  my  thought,  madame :  I  dreamed  last 
night  of  you,  forgetting  the  swell  that  rolled  beneath  a  huge 
steam  vessel  which  the  government  has  loaned  me,  and  upon 
which  I  am  entertaining  one  of  your  friends  and  one  of  your 
admirers,  Boulanger  and  my  son,  not  to  mention  Giraud, 
Maquet,  Chancel,  and  Desbarolles,  who  are  included  among 


THE   ARSENAL.  153 

your  acquaintances ;  as  I  was  saying,  I  fell  asleep,  thinking 
of  nothing  in  particular,  and  as  I  am  almost  always  in  the 
land  of  the  Thousand  and  One  Nights,  a  genie  visited  me 
and  led  me  into  a  dream  of  which  you  were  the  queen. 
The  place  to  which  he  took  me,  or  rather  took  me  back, 
madame,  was  much  better  than  a  palace,  was  much  better 
than  a  kingdom ;  it  was  that  kindly,  excellent  household  at 
the  Arsenal  in  the  days  of  its  happiness  and  joy,  when  our 
beloved  Charles  did  the  honors  with  all  the  freedom  of 
ancient  hospitality  and  our  highly  respected  Marie  with  all 
the  charm  of  modern  hospitality. 

"  Ah !  madame,  be  sure  that  when  I  wrote  those  lines  I 
uttered  a  heartfelt  sigh.  Those  were  happy  times  for  me. 
Your  charming  wit  inspired  everybody,  and  sometimes,  I 
venture  to  say,  myself  more  than  anybody  else.  You  see 
that  it  is  an  egotistical  sentiment  that  leads  me  to  address 
you.  I  borrowed  something  of  your  adorable  gayety,  as  the 
pebble  of  the  poet  Saadi  borrowed  a  portion  of  the  rose's 
perfume. 

"  Do  you  remember  Paul's  archer's  costume  ?  Do  you 
remember  Francisque  Michel's  yellow  shoes?  Do  you  re- 
member my  son  as  a  waterman  ?  Do  you  remember  the 
recess  where  the  piano  was  and  where  you  sang  "  Lazzara," 
that  wonderful  melody  which  you  promised  me,  and  which, 
be  it  said  without  reproach,  you  never  gave  me? 

"  As  I  am  appealing  to  your  memory,  let  us  go  stiU  further : 
do  you  remember  Fontaney  and  Alfred  Johannot,  those  two 
veiled  figures  who  always  maintained  their  melancholy 
demeanor  amid  our  laughter,  for  there  is  a  vague  foreboding 
of  the  tomb  in  men  who  are  destined  to  die  young.  Do  you 
remember  Taylor  sitting  in  a  corner,  motionless  and  dumb, 
wondering  what  new  voyage  he  could  undertake,  to  enrich 
France  with  a  Spanish  painting,  a  Greek  bas-relief,  or  an 
Egyptian  obelisk?  Do  you  remember  De  Vigny,  who  at 
that  time  suspected  his  coming  transfiguration  perhaps,  and 
disdained  to  mingle  with  the  common  herd  of  men  ?  Do 
you  remember  Lamartine,  standing  in  front  of  the  fire  and 
tossing  the  harmony  of  his  noble  lines  at  our  feet?    Do  you 


154      THE   WOMAN   WITH  THE  VELVET   NECKLACE. 

remember  Hugo,  looking  at  him  and  listening  to  him  as 
Eteocles  must  have  looked  at  and  listened  to  Polynice,  the 
only  one  among  us  with  the  smile  of  equality  upon  his  lips, 
while  Madame  Hugo,  playing  with  her  lovely  hair,  half 
reclined  on  the  couch,  as  if  fatigued  by  the  share  of  glory 
that  fell  to  her  lot?         » 

"  And  then,  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  your  mother,  so  simple 
and  kindly  and  sweet ;  your  aunt,  Madame  de  Tercy,  so 
witty  and  good-humored ;  Dauzats,  so  fanciful  and  turgid 
and  enthusiastic  ;  Barye,  so  alone  amid  the  noise,  that  it 
always  seemed  as  if  his  thought  was  sent  by  his  body  in 
search  of  one  of  the  seven  wonders  of  the  world ;  Boulanger, 
to-day  so  depressed,  to-morrow  so  cheerful,  always  such  a 
great  painter  and  poet,  always  so  true  a  friend  in  his  times 
of  cheerfulness  and  of  depression  alike ;  and  lastly  the  little 
girl  gliding  about  among  the  poets,  painters,  musicians, 
great  men,  men  of  intellect  and  scholars;  the  little  girl 
whom  I  used  to  take  in  the  hoUow  of  my  hand  and  offer  to 
you  as  if  she  were  a  statuette  by  Barre  or  by  Pradier !  Ah  1 
Mon  Dku  !  what  has  become  of  them  all,  madame  ? 

"  The  Lord  breathed  upon  the  keystone  of  the  arch  and 
the  magic  edifice  crumbled,  and  those  who  were  within  fled, 
and  the  very  spot  where  everything  was  alive  and  blooming 
and  flourishing  is  now  a  desert. 

"  Fontaney  and  Alfred  Johannot  are  dead,  Taylor  has 
given  up  travelling,  De  Vigny  has  withdrawn  from  sight, 
Lamartine  is  a  deputy,  Hugo  a  peer  of  France,  and  Bou- 
langer, my  son,  and  myself  are  at  Carthage,  whence  I  look 
toward  you,  madame,  as  I  heave  the  heartfelt  sigh  I  men- 
tioned just  now,  which,  despite  the  wind  that  whirls  away 
like  a  cloud  the  dying  smoke  of  our  vessel,  will  not  overtake 
those  cherished  memories  which  dark-winged  time  silently 
enwraps  in  the  grayish  mist  of  the  past. 

"  O  springtime,  youth  of  the  year  1  O  youth,  spring- 
time of  life! 

"  Ah,  well  I  that  is  the  vanished  world  that  my  dream 
brought  back  to  me  last  night,  as  bright  and  visible,  but 
alas  1  at  the  same  time  as  impalpable  as  the  atoms  that  dance 


THE   AKSENAL.  155 

in  the  sunbeam  that  creeps  into  a  dark  room  through  a  chink 
in  the  shutter. 

"  And  now,  madame,  you  are  no  longer  surprised  at  this 
letter,  are  you  ?  The  present  would  capsize  constantly  were 
it  not  held  in  equilibrium  by  the  weight  of  hope  and  the 
counterpoise  of  memory,  and,  it  may  be  luckily  or  unluckily, 
I  am  one  of  those  in  whom  memory  is  stronger  than  hope. 

"  Now  let  us  talk  of  something  else ;  for  while  we  may  be 
permitted  to  be  sad,  it  is  only  on  condition  that  we  do  not 
darken  the  lives  of  others  with  our  melancholy.  What  is 
my  friend  Boniface  doing  ?  Eight  or  ten  days  ago  I  visited 
a  town  which  wUl  cause  him  many  a  weary  hour  when  he 
finds  its  name  in  the  pages  of  that  base  usurer  whom  we  call 
Sallust.  That  town  is  Constantine,  the  ancient  Cyrta,  a 
marvel  of  architecture  built  on  the  summit  of  a  rock,  by  a 
race  of  fantastic  animals,  I  doubt  not,  with  the  wings  of  an 
eagle  and  human  hands,  such  as  Herodotus  and  Levaillant, 
those  two  great  travellers,  saw  and  described. 

"  Then  we  passed  a  little  time  at  Utica  and  much  at 
Biserta.  Giraud  made  a  portrait  of  a  Turkish  notary  in  the 
latter  city,  and  Boulanger  of  his  chief  clerk.  I  send  them  to 
you,  madame,  so  that  you  may  compare  them  with  the  nota- 
ries and  chief  clerks  of  Paris.  I  doubt  whether  the  result 
will  be  favorable  to  the  latter. 

"  I  fell  into  the  water  while  hunting  flamingoes  and  swans, 
an  accident  that  might  have  had  unpleasant  results  in  the 
Seine,  which  is  probably  frozen  solid  at  this  moment,  but 
in  Cato's  Lake  it  was  inconvenient  simply  because  it  made 
me  take  a  bath  with  my  clothes  on,  to  the  great  astonish- 
ment of  Alexandre,  Giraud,  and  the  governor  of  the  town, 
who  were  following  our  boat  with  their  eyes  from  a  terrace, 
and  could  not  understand  an  occurrence  which  they  attri- 
buted to  a  mental  vagary  on  my  part,  whereas  it  was  due  to 
the  displacement  of  my  centre  of  gravity. 

"  I  emerged  from  the  water  like  the  cormorants  I  men- 
tioned just  now,  madame ;  like  them  I  disappeared,  Uke 
them  I  returned  to  the  surface  I  but  I  had  not,  as  they  had, 
a  fish  in  my  beak. 


156   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

"  Five  minutes  after  it  happened  I  had  f orgottten  all  about 
it,  and  was  as  dry  as  Monsieur  Valery,  the  sun  was  so  oblig- 
ing in  its  attentions. 

"  Oh !  I  would  that  I  could  guide  a  beam  of  this  lovely 
sunlight  to  you,  madame,  wherever  you  may  be,  were  it  only 
to  make  a  sprig  of  myosotis  bloom  upon  your  window-siU. 

"  Adieu,  madame ;  forgive  this  long  letter.  I  am  not  in 
the  habit  of  doing  such  things,  and,  like  the  child  who  was 
defending  himself  against  the  charge  of  having  made  the 
world,  I  promise  you  that  I  will  not  do  it  again ;  but  why 
did  the  concierge  of  heaven  leave  open  the  ivory  gate  through 
which  golden  dreams  come  forth  ? 

"Please  to  accept,  madame,  the  homage  of  my  most 
respectful  sentiments. 

"Alexandre  Dumas. 

"  I  press  Jules'  hand  warmly." 

Why  do  I  quote  that  essentially  private  letter?  Be- 
cause before  telling  my  readers  the  story  of  the  woman 
with  the  velvet  necklace,  it  was  necessary  for  me  to 
throw  open  to  them  the  doors  of  the  Arsenal,  that  is  to 
say  of  the  home  of  Charles  Nodier. 

And  now  that  that  door  has  been  opened  by  the  hand 
of  his  daughter,  and  we  are  therefore  sure  of  a  wel- 
come, "  Let  him  who  loves  me  follow  me." 

At  the  farther  end  of  Paris  stands  a  large  building  of 
gloomy  and  forbidding  appearance,  called  the  Arsenal, 
a  sort  of  continuation  of  the  Quai  des  C^lestins,  over- 
looking the  river,  and  with  Rue  Morland  at  its  rear. 

A  part  of  the  ground  on  which  that  substantial  edifice 
is  built  was  called,  before  the  city  moats  were  dug,  the 
Champ-au-Pl§,tre.  Paris,  one  day  when  preparations 
for  war  were  in  progress,  purchased  the  field  and  built 
sheds  there  to  house  its  artillery.  About  1533  Pran9ois 
I.  discovered  that  he  was  in  need  of  cannon,  and  con- 


THE   ARSENAL.  157 

ceived  the  idea  of  having  them  cast  for  himself.  So  he 
borrowed  one  of  the  sheds  from  his  faithful  city,  promis- 
ing of  course  to  restore  it  as  soon  as  the  casting  was  com- 
pleted. Then,  on  the  pretext  of  hastening  the  work,  he 
borrowed  another,  and  then  a  third,  always  with  the  same 
promise;  but  in  the  end,  acting  upon  the  principle  that 
what  is  worth  taking  is  worth  keeping,  he  unceremoni- 
ously kept  the  three  buildings  he  had  borrowed. 

Twenty  years  later  about  twenty  thousand  pounds  of 
powder  that  were  stored  there  took  fire.  There  was  a 
terrific  explosion.  Paris  trembled  as  Catania  trembles 
on  the  days  when  Enceladus  changes  his  position. 
Stones  were  hurled  as  far  as  Faubourg  Saint-Marceau. 
The  roaring  of  the  terrible  thunder  caused  a  commotion 
at  Melun.  The  houses  in  the  vicinity  wavered  for  a 
moment  as  if  they  were  drunk,  then  fell  in.  Fish 
died  in  the  river,  killed  by  the  sudden  shock,  and 
thirty  people ,  who  were  blown  into  the  air  by  the  hurri- 
cane of  flame,  fell  to  the  ground  in  thousands  of  pieces; 
a  hundred  and  fifty  were  wounded.  How  did  the 
horrible  thing  happen?  What  was  the  cause  of  the 
disaster  ?  No  one  ever  knew,  and  in  view  of  the  general 
ignorance,  it  was  imputed  to  the  Protestants. 

Charles  IX.  caused  the  buildings  to  be  rebuilt  on  a 
more  extensive  scale.  A  great  builder  was  Charles  IX. 
The  gallery  of  the  Louvre  was  built  under  his  auspices, 
and  the  Innocents'  fountain  hewn  by  Jean  Goujon,  who 
was  killed  there  by  a  spent  ball,  as  every  one  knows. 
The  great  artist  and  great  poet  would  certainly  have 
completed  the  work,  had  not  God,  who  had  certain 
questions  to  ask  him  on  the  subject  of  August  24,  1572, 
summoned  him. 

His  successors  resumed  the  construction  of  the  build- 
ings  where  he  had  left  it,  and  went  on  with  it.     In 


158   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

1584,  under  Henri  III.,  the  doorway  facing  the  Quai 
des  Celestins,  was  carved.  It  was  flanked  by  pillars 
in  the  shape  of  cannon,  and  on  the  marble  shelf  above 
could  be  read  this  distich  of  Nicolas  Bourbon,  which 
Santeuil  sought  to  purchase  at  the  price  of  the 
scaffold :  — 

"iEtna  hie  Henrico  vulcania  tela  ministrat, 
Tela  giganteos  debeUatura  furores  ;  —  " 

Which  may  be  translated  thus :  — 

"  -^tna  forges  here  the  shafts  with  which  Henri  will  over- 
whelm the  savage  fury  of  the  giants." 

And,  in  truth,  after  crushing  the  giants  of  the  League, 
Henri  laid  out  the  lovely  garden  which  we  see  on  the 
maps  of  the  time  of  Louis  XIII.,  while  Sully  estab- 
lished his  ministerial  quarters  there ,  and  presided  at  the 
painting  and  gilding  of  the  beautiful  salons  which  to- 
day form  the  library  of  the  Arsenal. 

In  1823  Charles  Nodier  was  chosen  director  of  that 
library,  and  left  Kue  de  Choiseul,  where  he  then  lived, 
to  take  up  his  abode  in  his  new  quarters. 

A  most  delightful  man  was  Nodier.  Without  a  vice, 
but  full  of  faults,  those  fascinating  faults  in  which  the 
originality  of  a  man  of  genius  consists,  lavish,  heed- 
less, and  an  idler, —  an  idler  as  Figaro  was  indolent, 
with  hearty  enjoyment. 

Nodier  knew  almost  everything  that  it  is  given  to 
man  to  know.  Moreover,  Nodier  had  the  privilege  of 
the  man  of  genius.  When  he  did  not  know  he  invented, 
and  what  he  invented  was  far  more  ingenious,  more 
highly  colored,  more  probable  than  the  reality. 

Moreover,  though  full  of  systems,  and  an  enthusiastic 
dealer  in  paradoxes,  Nodier  was  in  no  sense  a  propa- 
gandist, and  it  was  for  his  own  amusement  only  that  he 


THE   ARSENAL.  159 

was  paradoxical,  for  himself  only  that  he  constructed 
systems.  If  his  systems  were  adopted  and  his  para- 
doxes understood,  he  immediately  varied  them  and  set 
about  making  others. 

Nodier  was  like  the  man  in  Terence  to  whom  noth- 
ing human  was  without  interest.  He  loved  for  the 
sake  of  loving.  He  loved  as  the  sun  shines,  as  the 
brook  murmurs,  as  the  flower  gives  perfume.  What- 
ever was  good,  whatever  was  beautiful,  whatever  was 
great  appealed  to  his  sympathies.  Even  in  evil  he 
sought  what  there  was  of  good,  just  as  the  chemist 
extracts  a  salutary  medicine  from  the  poisonous  plant, 
from  the  heart  of  the  very  poison  itself. 

How  many  times  had  Nodier  been  in  love  1  It  would 
have  been  impossible  for  him  to  answer  the  question 
himself.  Moreover,  great  poet  that  he  was,  he  con- 
stantly confounded  dreams  with  realities.  Nodier  had 
so  fondly  caressed  the  caprices  of  his  imagination  that 
he  had  come  at  last  to  believe  in  their  existence.  To 
him  "  Therese  Aubert,"  the  "Fee  aux  Miettes,"  and 
"  Ines  de  la  Sierra "  were  real  persons.  They  were 
his  daughters  as  Marie  was.  They  were  Marie's  sisters, 
only  Madame  Nodier  had  had  no  part  in  their  creation. 
Like  Jupiter,  Nodier  had  evolved  all  those  Minervas 
from  his  brain. 

But  not  human  beings  alone,  not  Eve's  daughter  and 
Adam's  sons  alone  did  Nodier  animate  with  his  life- 
giving  breath.  Nodier  had  invented  an  animal  and 
christened  it.  He  had  then,  on  his  own  authority, 
without  concerning  himself  as  to  what  God  would  say, 
endowed  it  with  immortality. 

That  animal  was  the  taratantaleo. 

You  do  not  know  the  taratantaleo,  do  you?  Nor  do 
I;  but  Nodier  knew  it,  knew  it  by  heart.     He  would 


160   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

describe  to  you  the  taratantaleo's  manners  and  customs 
and  caprices.  He  would  have  told  you  of  its  love 
affairs,  if,  from  the  moment  he  discovered  that  the 
taratantaleo  bore  within  him  the  principle  of  everlast- 
ing life,  he  had  not  condemned  him  to  celibacy,  repro- 
duction being  useless  where  resurrection  exists. 

How  had  Nodier  discovered  the  taratantaleo  1 

I  am  about  to  tell  you. 

At  eighteen  years  of  age  Nodier  was  interested  in 
entomology.  Nodier's  life  was  divided  into  six  differ- 
ent phases :  — 

First  he  devoted  himself  to  natural  history :  "  La 
Bibliotheque  Entomologique. " 

Then  to  philology :  "  Le  Dictionnaire  des  Onoma- 
topees. " 

Then  to  politics:  "  La  Napoleone." 

Then  to  religious  philosophy :  "  Les  Meditations  du 
Cloitre." 

Then  to  poetry :  "  Les  Essais  d'un  Jeune  Barde. " 

Then  to  novel- wri ting :  "Jean  Sbogar,"  "Smarra," 
" Trilby,"  "Le  Peintre  de  Salzbourg,"  "Mademoiselle 
de  Marsan,"  "AdMe,"  « Le  Vampire,"  « Le  Songe 
d'Or,"  "Les  Souvenirs  de  Jeunesse,"  "Le  Eoi  de 
Boh^me  et  ses  Sept  ChS,teaux,"  "Les  Fantaisies  du 
Docteur  N^ophobus,"  and  a  thousand  other  delightful 
things  which  you  know,  which  I  know,  but  whose 
names  do  not  come  to  my  pen. 

Nodier  then  was  in  the  first  phase  of  his  labors.  He 
was  engaged  in  the  study  of  entomology,  and  lived  on 
the  sixth  floor,  one  floor  higher  than  the  poet  Beranger. 
He  was  making  experiments  upon  infinitely  small 
creatures  under  the  microscope,  and  he  discovered  a 
whole  world  of  invisible  animalculse  long  before  Raspail. 
One  day,  after  subjecting  to  a  careful  scrutiny  water, 


/ 


THE   ARSENAL.  161 

wine,  vinegar,  cheese,  bread,  everything  in  fact  upon 
which  experiments  are  usually  made,  he  picked  up  a 
little  moist  sand  from  the  gutter  and  placed  it  on  the 
slide  of  his  microscope,  then  put  his  eye  to  the  lens. 

Thereupon  he  saw  a  strange  animal,  shaped  like  a 
velocipede,  moving  across  the  slide,  having  two  wheels 
which  he  worked  very  rapidly.  Had  he  a  stream  to 
cross?  His  wheels  served  the  same  purpose  as  the 
paddle-wheels  of  a  steamboat.  Had  he  a  tract  of  dry 
land  to  cross  1  His  wheels  served  the  same  purpose  as 
the  wheels  of  a  cab.  Nodier  watched  him,  dissected 
him,  sketched  him,  and  analyzed  him  for  so  long  a  time 
that,  suddenly  remembering  that  he  had  an  appoint- 
ment, he  hurried  away,  leaving  his  microscope,  his 
grain  of  sand,  and  the  taratantaleo,  whose  world  it 
was. 

When  Nodier  returned  home  it  was  late.  He  was 
tired,  so  he  went  to  bed  and  slept  as  one  sleeps  at 
eighteen.  Not  until  he  opened  his  eyes  the  next 
morning,  therefore,  did  he  think  of  his  grain  of  sand, 
his  microscope,  and  his  taratantaleo. 

Alas  !  during  the  night  the  sand  had  dried  and  the 
poor  taratantaleo,  which  undoubtedly  required  some 
dampness  to  support  life,  was  dead.  His  tiny  body  lay 
on  its  side,  the  wheels  were  motionless.  The  steam- 
boat no  longer  moved,  the  velocipede  had  stopped. 

But,  dead  as  he  was,  the  animal  was  none  the  less  an 
interesting  variety  of  the  ephemera,  and  his  corpse 
was  as  well  worth  preserving  as  that  of  a  mammoth  or 
a  mastodon;  but,  as  you  will  see,  it  was  necessary  to 
take  vastly  greater  precautions  to  handle  a  creature  a 
hundred  times  smaller  than  a  flesh-worm,  than  to  move 
an  animal  ten  times  larger  than  an  elephant. 

Nodier  used  the  point  of  a  pen,  therefore ,  to  transport 
11 


162   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

the  grain  of  sand  from  the  slide  of  the  microscope  to  a 
small  pasteboard  box,  destined  to  be  the  taratantaleo's 
sepulchre. 

He  promised  himself  that  he  would  show  the  body  to 
the  first  scientist  who  should  venture  to  climb  up  his 
six  flights  of  stairs. 

There  are  so  many  things  for  a  youth  of  eighteen  to 
think  about,  that  he  may  be  forgiven  for  forgetting  the 
dead  body  of  an  ephemeral  insect.  Nodier  forgot  the 
taratantaleo's  body  for  three  months,  six  months,  perhaps 
a  year. 

But  one  day  he  happened  to  notice  the  box.  He  was 
desirous  to  see  what  change  a  year  had  produced  in  the 
animal.  It  was  a  cloudy  day  and  the  rain  was  falling 
heavily.  In  order  to  see  better,  he  went  to  the  window 
and  emptied  the  contents  of  the  little  box  onto  the  slide 
of  his  microcsope. 

The  body  was  still  lying  on  the  sand  motionless; 
but  time,  which  has  so  great  an  eifect  upon  larger 
creatures,  seemed  to  have  overlooked  the  infinitely 
small. 

Nodier  was  looking  at  his  treasure,  when  suddenly  a 
drop  of  rain,  driven  by  the  wind,  fell  upon  the  slide  of 
the  microscope  and  moistened  the  grain  of  sand. 

Thereupon,  at  the  first  touch  of  that  revivifying 
moisture,  it  seemed  to  Nodier  that  his  taratantaleo  came 
to  life  again,  that  he  moved  one  feeler,  then  another; 
that  he  turned  one  of  his  wheels;  that  he  turned  both 
wheels;  that  he  recovered  his  centre  of  gravity;  that 
his  movements  became  regular;  in  a  word,  that  he 
lived. 

The  miracle  of  resurrection  was  accomplished,  not 
after  three  days,  but  after  a  year. 

Ten  times  Nodier  repeated  the  same  test.     Ten  times 


THE  ARSENAL.  163 

the  sand  dried  and  the  taratantaleo  died.  Ten  times 
the  sand  was  moistened,  and  ten  times  the  taratantaleo 
came  to  life. 

It  was  not  one  of  the  ephemera  which  Nodier  had 
discovered,  but  an  immortal.  In  all  probability  his 
taratantaleo  had  seen  the  Deluge  and  was  destined  to 
be  present  at  the  Last  Judgment. 

Unluckily,  one  day  when  Nodier  was  preparing,  per- 
haps for  the  twentieth  time,  to  repeat  his  experiment,  a 
gust  of  wind  carried  away  the  dry  grain  of  sand,  and 
with  it  the  corpse  of  the  phenomenal  taratantaleo. 

Nodier  picked  up  many  grains  of  moist  sand  from 
his  gutter  and  elsewhere,  but  it  was  of  no  avail.  He 
never  found  the  duplicate  of  what  he  had  lost.  The 
taratantaleo  was  the  only  one  of  his  kind,  and,  lost  to 
mankind,  he  lived  only  in  Nodier's  memory.  But  he 
lived  there  in  such  a  way  as  never  to  be  effaced. 

We  have  spoken  of  Nodier's  faults.  His  dominant 
fault,  in  Madame  Nodier's  eyes  at  least,  was  his  biblio- 
mania. That  fault,  which  was  Nodier's  joy,  drove 
his  wife  to  despair. 

The  difficulty  was  that  all  the  money  Nodier  earned 
went  for  books.  How  many  times,  when  he  had  gone 
out  to  collect  two  or  three  hundred  francs  that  were 
absolutely  necessary  for  the  household  expenses,  did  he 
return  home  with  a  rare  volume,  an  only  copy! 

The  money  had  stuck  fast  in  the  till  of  Techener  or 
Guillemot. 

Madame  Nodier  would  attempt  to  scold  him.  But 
Nodier  would  take  his  volume  from  his  pocket,  open  it, 
close  it,  pat  it  with  his  hand,  point  out  to  his  wife  an 
error  in  printing  that  proved  the  genuineness  of  the 
book,  saying, — 

*  Kemember,   my  dear   love,   that  I  can  find   three 


164   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

hundred  francs  another  time,  while  such  another  book 
as  this,  hum!  such  another  book,  hvlm!  is  not  to  be 
found.     Ask  Pixerecourt. " 

Pixerecourt  was  Nodier's  great  admiration,  for  Nodier 
always  adored  melodrama.  He  called  Pixerecourt  the 
Corneille  of  the  boulevards. 

Pixerecourt  called  on  Nodier  almost  every  morning. 
The  morning  at  Nodier's  was  given  over  to  visits 
from  bibliophiles.  There  were  wont  to  assemble  the 
Marquis  de  Ganay,  the  Marquis  de  Chateau-Giron,  the 
Marquis  de  Chalabre,  the  Comte  de  Labedoyere,  Berard, 
the  man  of  the  Elzevirs,  who,  in  his  leisure  moments, 
revised  the  Charter  of  1830,  the  bibliophile  Jacob,  the 
learned  Weiss  of  Besangon,  the  universal  scholar  Peignot 
of  Dijon;  and  all  the  foreign  scholars,  who,  immediately 
on  their  arrival  in  Paris,  procured  an  introduction  or 
introduced  themselves  to  that  circle,  whose  reputation 
was  European. 

There  they  all  consulted  Nodier,  the  oracle  of  the 
assemblage.  They  showed  him  books.  They  asked 
him  for  memoranda  concerning  them.  It  was  his 
favorite  amusement.  The  scholars  of  the  Institute 
seldom  appeared  at  those  gatherings.  They  looked 
upon  Nodier  with  jealousy.  Nodier  combined  wit  and 
poetic  talent  with  learning,  and  that  is  an  offence  which 
the  Academy  of  Sciences  is  no  more  ready  to  pardon 
than  the  Acad^mie  Franqaise. 

And  then  Nodier  often  jested  and  he  sometimes  bit. 
One  day  he  wrote  "Le  E-oi  de  Boheme  et  ses  Sept 
Chateaux."  That  time  he  carried  the  day.  Nodier 
was  supposed  to  have  fallen  out  forever  with  the  Insti- 
tute. Not  at  all.  The  Academy  of  Timbuctoo  brought 
about  Nodier's  admission  to  the  Academic  Frangaise. 
Sisters  owe  something  to  each  other. 


THE  AESENAL.  165 

After  two  or  three  hours  of  work  that  was  always  easy 
to  him,  of  covering  ten  or  twelve  pages  of  paper  about 
six  inches  by  four,  with  legible,  even  handwriting,  free 
from  erasures,  Nodier  would  go  out. 

Once  out  of  the  house,  Nodier  prowled  about  at 
random,  almost  always  following  the  line  of  the  quays, 
however,  but  crossing  and  recrossing  the  bridges, 
according  to  the  topographical  location  of  the  various 
bookstalls.  From  the  bookstalls  he  would  go  to  the 
shops  of  the  publishers,  and  thence  to  the  bookbinders. 

For  Nodier  was  a  connoisseur  not  only  in  books  but 
in  bindings.  The  masterpieces  of  Gaseon  under  Louis 
XIII.,  of  Desseuil  under  Louis  XIV.,  of  Pasdeloup 
under  Louis  XV. ,  and  of  Derome  under  Louis  XV.  and 
Louis  XVI.  were  so  familiar  to  him  that  he  could 
distinguish  them  with  his  eyes  closed,  simply  by  touch- 
ing them.  It  was  Nodier  who  had  revived  the  art  of 
binding,  which  ceased  to  be  an  art  under  the  revolu- 
tionary government  and  the  Empire.  It  was  he  who 
encouraged  and  guided  the  restorers  of  the  art,  the 
Thouvenins,  Bradels,  Niedrees,  Bozonnets,  and  Legrands. 
Thouvenin,  dying  of  consumption,  rose  from  his  death- 
bed to  cast  one  last  glance  at  the  bindings  he  was 
making  for  Nodier. 

Nodier's  peregrinations  almost  always  ended  at 
Crozet's  or  Techener's,  those  brothers-in-law,  parted 
by  rivalry,  between  whom  his  placid  personality  inter- 
vened. There  the  bibliophiles  assembled  to  discuss 
books,  editions,  sales.  There  they  made  exclianges. 
As  soon  as  Nodier  appeared  there  was  a  shout  of  wel- 
come; but  as  soon  as  he  opened  his  mouth,  absolute 
«ilence.  Thereupon  Nodier  would  talk  and  give  utter- 
ajxce  to  paradoxes  de  omni  re  scibili  et  quibusdam 
aliis. 


166   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

In  the  evening,  after  the  family  dinner,  Nodier 
usually  worked  in  the  dining-room  between  three 
candles  arranged  in  the  shape  of  a  triangle,  never  more, 
never  less.  We  have  told  what  sort  of  paper  he  used 
and  described  his  handwriting.  He  always  wrote  with 
goose-quills.  Nodier  had  a  horror  of  steel  pens,  as  of 
all  new  inventions  in  general.  Gas  made  him  furious; 
steam  exasperated  him.  He  discovered  an  infallible 
sign  of  the  speedy  end  of  the  world  in  the  destruction 
of  the  forests  and  the  exhaustion  of  the  coal  mines.  In 
his  fierce  tirades  against  progress  and  civilization, 
Nodier's  impassioned  warmth  was  particularly  resplen- 
dent and  his  vehemence  overwhelming. 

About  half-past  nine  in  the  evening  Nodier  went 
out.  Then  he  did  not  follow  the  line  of  the  quays ,  but 
the  line  of  the  boulevards.  He  went  to  the  Porte-Saint- 
Martin,  the  Ambigu,  or  the  Funambules,  preferably 
the  last-named.  It  was  Nodier  who  deified  Debureau. 
To  Nodier's  mind  there  were  but  three  actors  in  the 
world, — Debureau,  Potier,  and  Talma.  Potier  and 
Talma  were  dead,  but  Debureau  remained  and  consoled 
Nodier  for  the  loss  of  the  other  two. 

Nodier  had  seen  the  "  Bceuf  Enrage  "  a  hundred  times. 

Every  Sunday  Nodier  breakfasted  with  Pixerecourt. 
There  he  met  his  callers,  —  the  bibliophile  Jacob, 
king  while  Nodier  was  not  there,  vice-king  when 
Nodier  appeared;  the  Marquis  de  Ganay,  the  Marquis 
de  Chalabre. 

The  Marquis  de  Ganay  was  a  fickle-minded,  capricious 
collector,  who  loved  a  book  as  a  roud  in  the  days  of  the 
Regency  loved  a  woman,  simply  to  possess  it;  and 
when  he  obtained  it  he  was  faithful  for  a  month,  —  not 
faithful  but  enthusiastic,  —  carrying  it  in  his  pocket, 
stopping   his   friends   to  show  it  to  them,  putting   it 


THE   ARSENAL.  167 

under  his  pillow,  and  waking  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  and  lighting  his  candle  to  gloat  over  it,  but  never 
reading  it;  always  envious  of  Pixerecourt's  books, 
which  Pixerecourt  refused  to  sell  him  at  any  price;  and 
revenging  himself  for  that  refusal  by  purchasing  at 
Madame  de  Castellane's  sale  an  autograph  that  Pixere- 
court had  craved  for  ten  years. 

"  Never  mind!  "  cried  Pixerecourt  in  a  rage,  "  I  will 
have  it." 

"  What  ?  "  asked  the  Marquis  de  Ganay. 

"  Your  autograph." 

"  And  when ,  pray  1  " 
'     **  Parhleu  !  at  your  death. " 

And  Pixerecourt  would  have  kept  his  word  if  the 
Marquis  de  Ganay  had  not  thought  it  best  to  survive 
him. 

As  for  the  Marquis  de  Chalabre,  he  had  but  one 
ambition.  That  was  to  possess  a  Bible  that  nobody 
owned,  but  that  ambition  was  none  the  less  keen.  He 
tormented  Nodier  so,  urging  him  to  tell  him  where  he 
could  procure  a  copy  which  had  no  fellow,  that  Nodier 
at  last  did  even  better  than  the  marquis  desired.  He 
told  him  of  a  copy  that  did  not  exist. 

The  Marquis  de  Chalabre  immediately  set  out  to  find 
that  copy. 

Christopher  Columbus  displayed  no  more  ardor  in  his 
attempts  to  discover  America,  Vasco  de  Gama  was  not 
more  persistent  in  his  search  for  the  Indies  than  the 
Marquis  de  Chalabre  in  the  pursuit  of  his  Bible.  But 
America  actually  existed  between  latitude  70  degrees 
north  and  latitude  53  and  54  degrees  south;  India 
really  lay  on  this  and  the  other  side  of  the  Ganges; 
whereas  the  Marquis  de  Chalabre's  Bible  was  situated 
in   no  latitude,   and  did  not  lie  on  either  side  of  the 


168      THE   WOMAN   WITH  THE   VELVET   NECKLACE. 

Seine.  The  result  was  that  Vasco  de  Gama  found 
India,  that  Christopher  Columhus  discovered  America, 
but  that  the  marquis  sought  in  vain  from  north  to  south 
and  from  east  to  west.     He  did  not  find  his  Bible. 

The  more  fruitless  the  search  the  more  ardently  the 
Marquis  de  Chalabre  pursued  it. 

He  had  offered  five  hundred  francs  for  it.  He  had 
offered  a  thousand  francs.  He  had  offered  two  thou- 
sand, four  thousand,  ten  thousand  francs.  All  the 
bibliographers  were  in  a  terrible  pother  on  the  subject 
of  that  wretched  Bible.  They  wrote  to  Germany  and 
to  England.  No  result.  They  would  not  have  given 
themselves  so  much  trouble  for  a  note  from  the  Marquis 
de  Chalabre,  but  they  would  simply  have  replied, 
"  There  is  no  such  Bible."  But  a  note  from  Nodier  was 
a  very  different  matter.  If  Nodier  had  said,  "  Such  a 
Bible  is  in  existence,"  the  Bible  undoubtedly  existed. 
The  pope  might  be  mistaken,  but  Nodier  was 
infallible. 

The  search  lasted  three  years.  Every  Sunday  the 
Marquis  de  Chalabre  said  to  Nodier  as  they  breakfasted 
together  at  Pixer^court's,  — 

"  By  the  way,  my  dear  Charles,  about  that  Bible  —  " 

"  Well  ?  " 

«  It  can't  be  found  !  " 

"  Qucere  et  invenies"  Nodier  would  reply. 

And  the  bibliomaniac  would  resume  his  search  with 
renewed  ardor,  but  he  found  nothing. 

At  last  they  brought  the  Marquis  de  Chalabre  a 
Bible. 

It  was  not  the  one  mentioned  by  Nodier,  but  there 
was  only  a  year's  difference  in  the  date.  It  was  not 
printed  at  Kehl,  but  it  was  printed  at  Strasburg,  only 
a  league  away.     It  was  not  a  unique  copy,  it  is  true; 


,  THE  ARSENAL.  169 

but  the  only  other  one  in  existence  was  in  a  monastery 
of  the  Druses  in  Lebanon.  The  Marquis  de  Chalabre 
carried  the  Bible  to  Nodier  and  asked  his  opinion. 

"  Dame  !  "  replied  Nodier,  seeing  that  the  marquis 
was  quite  ready  to  go  mad  if  he  had  not  some  Bible, 
"  take  this  one,  my  dear  friend,  as  it 's  impossible  to 
find  the  other." 

The  Marquis  de  Chalabre  purchased  the  Bible  for 
two  thousand  francs,  had  it  splendidly  rebound,  and 
placed  it  in  a  special  case. 

When  he  died,  the  Marquis  de  Chalabre  left  his 
library  to  Mademoiselle  Mars.  Mademoiselle  Mars, 
who  was  nothing  less  than  a  bibliomaniac,  requested 
Merlin  to  catalogue  all  the  books  belonging  to  the 
deceased  and  have  them  sold.  Merlin,  who  was  the 
most  honest  man  on  earth,  called  upon  Mademoiselle 
Mars  one  day  with  thirty  or  forty  thousand  francs  in 
bank-notes  in  his  hand. 

He  had  found  them  in  a  sort  of  portfolio  arranged  in 
the  magnificent  binding  of  that  almost  unique  Bible. 

"  Why,"  I  asked  Nodier,  "  did  you  play  that  joke  on 
the  poor  Marquis  de  Chalabre,  you  are  so  little  given  to 
practical  joking  ?  " 

"Because  he  was  ruining  himself,  my  friend,  and 
because  he  had  n't  thought  of  anything  else  during  the 
three  years  that  he  was  engaged  in  the  quest  for  his 
Bible.  At  the  end  of  the  three  years  he  spent  two 
thousand  francs.  During  the  next  three  he  would  have 
spent  fifty  thousand. " 

Now  that  we  have  shown  our  beloved  Charles  as  he 
appeared  during  the  week  and  on  Sunday  morning,  let 
us  describe  him  as  he  was  on  Sunday  from  six  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  until  midnight. 

How  did  I  make  Nodier's  acquaintance  ? 


170      THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE  VELVET   NECKLACE. 

In  the  same  way  that  everybody  else  did.  He  ren- 
dered me  a  service.  It  was  in  1827,  and  I  had  just 
finished  "  Christine."  I  knew  no  one  in  the  depart- 
ments, no  one  at  the  theatre.  My  official  position, 
instead  of  being  of  assistance  to  me  in  attaining  the 
Comedie-Franqaise,  was  a  hindrance.  I  had  written, 
two  or  three  days  earlier,  this  last  line,  which  has  been 
so  loudly  hissed  and  so  loudly  applauded :  — 

"  Eh  bien,  —  j'en  ai  piti^,  mon  pfere :  qu'on  I'ach^ve !  " 

Below  that  line  I  had  written,  The  End.  There 
was  nothing  more  for  me  to  do  but  to  read  my  piece  to 
messieurs  the  king's  actors,  and  to  be  accepted  or 
rejected   by  them. 

Unfortunately  at  that  time  the  management  of  the 
Comddie-FranQaise  was,  like  the  government  of  Venice, 
republican  but  aristocratic,  and  not  every  one  who 
sought  gained  access  to  their  most  serene  highnesses  the 
committee. 

There  was  an  examiner  whose  duty  it  was  to  read  the 
works  of  young  men  who  had  done  nothing  as  yet,  and 
who,  consequently,  were  not  entitled  to  have  their 
work  read  by  the  committee  until  it  had  been  examined ; 
but  the  traditions  of  the  drama  contained  such  doleful 
stories  of  manuscripts  awaiting  their  turn  to  be  read  for 
one  or  two,  and  even  three  years,  that  I,  being  familiar 
with  Dante  and  Milton,  dared  not  risk  being  consigned 
to  that  purgatory,  trembling  lest  my  poor  "Christine  " 
should  go  to  increase  the  number  of 

"  Questi  sciaurati  che  mai  non  fur  vivi." 

I  had  heard  Nodier  spoken  of  as  the  bom  protector 
of  every  unborn  poet.  I  asked  Baron  Taylor  for  a  line 
to  introduce  me  to  him.     He  sent  it  to  me.     A  week 


THE   ARSENAL.  171 

later  my  play  was  read  at  the  Theatre-PranQais,  and  was 
almost  accepted. 

I  say  almost,  because  there  were  in  "  Christine,"  con- 
sidering the  time  when  it  was  written,  that  is  to  say  the 
year  of  grace  1827,  such  literary  enormities,  that  mes- 
seieurs  the  king's  actors  in  ordinary  dared  not  accept 
me  on  their  own  authority,  but  subordinated  their 
opinion  to  that  of  Monsieur  Picard,  the  author  of  "  La 
Petite  Ville." 

Monsieur  Picard  was  one  of  the  oracles  of  the  time. 

¥irmin  escorted  me  to  Monsieur  Picard.  Monsieur 
Picard  received  me  in  a  library  supplied  with  all  the 
editions  of  his  works  and  adorned  with  his  bust.  He 
took  my  manuscript,  made  an  appointment  with  me  for 
that  day  week,  and  dismissed  me. 

A  week  later,  hour  for  hour,  I  presented  myself  at 
Monsieur  Picard's  door.  Monsieur  Picard  evidently 
expected  me ;  he  greeted  me  with  a  smile  like  Rigobert's 
in  "  Maison  a  Vendre." 

"  Monsieur,"  he  said  to  me,  handing  me  my  manu- 
script neatly  rolled,  "  have  you  any  means  of  sub- 
sistence 1  " 

"Yes,  monsieur,"  I  replied.  "I  have  a  small  place 
in  Monsieur  le  Due  d'Orleans'  household." 

"Very  good!  "  he  said,  putting  my  roll  in  my  hands 
with  much  warmth  of  manner,  and  taking  my  hands  at 
the  same  time,  "  go  back  to  your  desk,  my  boy." 

And  delighted  at  having  said  a  bright  thing,  he 
rubbed  his  hands,  indicating  with  a  gesture  that  my 
audience  was  at  an  end. 

I  owed  an  acknowledgment  to  Nodier  none  the  less. 
I  called  at  the  Arsenal.  Nodier  received  me,  as  he 
received  every  one,  with  a  smile.  But  there  be  smiles 
and  smiles,  as  Moliere  says. 


172      THE    WOMAN   WITH   THE   VELVET   NECKLACE. 

I  may  forget  Picard's  smile  some  day,  but  I  shall 
never  forget  Nodier's. 

I  was  determined  to  prove  to  Nodier  that  I  was  not 
so  utterly  unworthy  his  patronage  as  he  might  think 
after  what  Picard  had  said  to  me.  I  left  my  manuscript 
with  him.  The  next  day  I  received  a  delightful  letter, 
which  restored  all  my  courage  and  invited  me  to  the 
evenings  at  the  Arsenal. 

Those  evenings  at  the  Arsenal  were  most  charming 
functions,  to  which  no  pen  can  ever  do  justice.  They 
were  on  Sundays,  and  really  began  at  six  o'clock. 

At  six  o'clock  the  table  was  set.  The  regular  guests 
were  the  founders  of  the  meetings;  Cailleux,  Taylor, 
and  Francis  Wey,  whom  Nodier  loved  like  a  son;  then 
there  were  generally  one  or  two  specially  invited  guests, 
and  in  addition  whoever  chose  to  come. 

Once  you  were  admitted  to  that  charming  household 
on  a  footing  of  intimacy,  you  dined  with  Nodier  at 
your  own  pleasure.  There  were  always  two  or  three 
covers  laid  for  chance  guests.  If  the  number  proved  to 
be  insufficient,  a  fourth  was  added,  and  a  fifth  and  a 
sixth.  If  it  was  necessary  to  lengthen  the  table ,  it  was 
lengthened.  But  woe  to  him  who  made  the  thirteenth ! 
He  was  pitilessly  relegated  to  a  small  table,  unless  a 
fourteenth  came  and  relieved  him  from  his  penance. 

Nodier  had  his  foibles;  he  preferred  brown  bread 
to  white,  pewter  to  silver  plate,  tallow  candles  to 
wax. 

No  one  paid  any  attention  to  them  except  Madame 
Nodier,  who  saw  that  he  had  what  he  wanted. 

After  a  year  or  two  I  became  one  of  the  intimate 
friends  of  whom  I  spoke  just  now.  I  was  at  liberty  to 
call,  without  warning,  at  the  dinner  hour;  I  was  received 
with  joyous  shouts  that  left  me  in  no  doubt  as  to  my 


THE  AESENAL.  173 

welcome,  and  they  gave  me  a  seat  at  tatle,  or  rather  I 
took  a  seat  between  Madame  Nodier  and  Marie. 

After  a  certain  time,  what  was  only  a  privilege 
became  a  vested  right.  If  I  arrived  late,  if  they  were  at 
table  and  my  place  was  taken,  they  apologized  to  the 
usurper,  my  place  was  given  up  to  me,  and,  faith  !  he 
whom  I  displaced  found  a  seat  where  he  could. 

Nodier  maintained  that  my  presence  was  a  stroke  of 
good  fortune  for  him,  in  that  I  made  it  unnecessary  for 
him  to  talk.  But  if  it  was  good  fortune  for  him,  it 
certainly  was  ill  fortune  for  the  others.  Nodier  was 
the  most  delightful  talker  that  ever  lived.  It  was  of 
no  use  to  do  to  my  conversation  all  that  you  do  to  a  fire 
to  make  it  blaze,  blow  it  and  poke  it  and  throw  on  the 
steel  filings  that  make  the  mind  give  forth  sparks  like 
those  of  the  forge ;  there  was  verve,  energy,  youth ,  but 
there  was  not  that  kindly  wit,  that  inexpressible  charm, 
that  infinite  grace  in  which,  as  in  a  snare,  the  bird- 
catcher  captures  all  sorts  of  birds,  large  and  small  alike. 
In  a  word,  I  was  not  Nodier. 

I  was  a  makeshift  with  which  they  had  to  be  content, 
that  was  all. 

But  sometimes  I  sulked,  sometimes  I  would  not  talk, 
and  when  I  refused,  Nodier,  as  it  was  his  own  house, 
was  compelled  to  talk;  then  everybody  listened,  small 
children  and  grown  men  and  women.  It  was  a  combi- 
nation of  Walter  Scott  and  Perrault,  it  was  the  scholar 
at  daggers  drawn  with  the  poet,  memory  contending 
with  imagination.  Not  only  was  Nodier  entertaining 
to  listen  to,  he  was  delightful  to  look  at,  as  well.  His 
long  slender  body,  his  long  thin  arms,  his  long  white 
hands,  his  long  face,  overflowing  with  melancholy 
benevolence,  —  all  were  in  harmony  with  his  slightly 
drawling  speech,  in  which  there  was  at  certain  times  a 


174   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

marked  Franche-Comtois  accent  which  Nodier  never 
entirely  lost.  Ah !  then  the  stream  of  talk  was  inex- 
haustible, always  new,  never  the  same  thing  twice  over. 
Time,  space,  history,  nature  were  to  Nodier  the  For- 
tunatus'  purse  into  which  Pierre  Schlemill  plunged 
his  hands  again  and  again  and  never  found  them  empty. 
He  had  known  everybody:  Dan  ton,  Charlotte  Corday, 
Gustavus  III.,  Cagliostro,  Pius  VI.,  Catherine  II., 
Frederic  the  Great,  and  the  rest.  Like  the  Comte  de 
Saint-Germain  and  the  taratantaleo,  he  had  been  present 
at  the  creation  of  the  world  and  come  down  through  the 
centuries,  changing  his  form.  Indeed  he  had  a  most 
ingenious  theory  on  the  subject  of  that  change  of  form. 
According  to  Nodier,  dreams  were  simply  a  reminiscence 
of  days  passed  in  another  planet,  of  something  that 
happened  long  ago.  According  to  Nodier,  the  most 
fantastic  dreams  corresponded  to  actual  occurrences  in 
bygone  ages  in  Saturn,  Venus,  or  Mercury;  the  strangest 
images  were  simply  the  phantoms  of  figures  that  had 
made  a  lasting  impression  upon  our  immortal  souls. 
When  he  first  visited  the  museum  of  fossils  at  the 
Jardin  des  Plantes,  he  cried  out  at  the  sight  of  animals 
he  had  seen  in  the  deluge  of  Deucalion  and  Pyrrha,  and 
sometimes  he  went  so  far  as  to  admit  that,  observing  the 
tendency  of  the  Templars  to  universal  empire,  he  had 
advised  Jacques  Molay  to  conquer  his  ambition.  It 
was  not  his  fault  that  Jesus  Christ  was  crucified;  he 
alone  among  his  followers  had  warned  him  of  Pilate's 
evil  designs  upon  him.  Nodier  had  been  especially 
favored  in  meeting  the  Wandering  Jew :  the  first  time 
at  Rome,  in  the  days  of  Gregory  VII. ;  the  second  time 
in  Paris  on  the  eve  of  St.  Bartholomew,  and  the  last 
time  at  Vienne  in  Dauphine;  and  he  had  some  most 
precious  documents  concerning  him.     And  on  that  sub- 


THE   ARSENAL.  175 

ject  he  corrected  an  error  into  which  scholars  and  poets 
had  fallen,  especially  Edgar  Quinet.  The  name  of  the 
man  with  five  sons  was  not  Ahasuerus,  which  is  half 
Greek  and  half  Latin,  but  Isaac  Laquedem.  He  could 
speak  with  assurance  on  that  point,  as  he  had  the  infor- 
mation from  his  own  mouth.  Then,  from  politics,  from 
philosophy,  from  tradition,  he  would  pass  to  natural 
history.  Ah!  how  far  Nodier  outstripped  in  that 
science  Herodotus,  Pliny,  Marco  Polo,  Buffon,  and 
Lacepede !  He  had  known  spiders  beside  which 
Pelisson's  spider  was  nothing.  He  had  been  intimate 
with  frogs,  compared  with  which  Methuselah  was  only 
a  child.  Lastly,  he  had  had  business  with  caymans 
beside  which  the  tarasque  was  only  a  lizard. 

And  then,  too,  such  things  happened  to  Nodier  as 
happen  only  to  men  of  genius.  One  day,  when  he 
was  hunting  for  lepidoptera,  during  his  sojourn  in 
Styria,  a  land  of  granite  cliffs  and  trees  hoary  with  age, 
he  climbed  a  tree  in  order  to  reach  a  cavity  that  he 
noticed,  thrust  his  hand  into  the  cavity,  — as  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  doing,  and  most  imprudently  too,  for  one 
day  he  withdrew  his  arm  from  such  a  cavity  decorated 
with  a  serpent  that  had  coiled  around  it,  —  one  day,  as 
we  were  saying,  having  found  a  cavity,  he  thrust  in 
his  hand  and  felt  something  flabby  and  sticky,  which 
yielded  to  the  pressure  of  his  fingers.  He  quickly 
drew  his  hand  back  and  looked  in ;  a  pair  of  eyes  gleamed 
with  a  dull  flame  in  the  cavity.  Nodier  believed  in 
the  devil;  and  so,  when  he  saw  those  two  eyes  which 
were  not  unlike  Charon's  blazing  eyes,  as  described  by 
Dante,  Nodier's  first  impulse  was  to  fly.  Then  he 
reflected,  thought  better  of  it,  took  a  hatchet,  and,  after 
measuring  the  depth  of  the  hole,  began  to  make  an 
opening  at  the  point  where  he  supposed  the  unknown 


176   THB  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

object  would  be  found.  At  the  fifth  or  sixth  blow  of 
the  hatchet  the  blood  flowed  from  the  tree  precisely  as 
the  blood  flowed  from  Tasso's  enchanted  forest  under 
the  sword  of  Tancred.  But  it  was  not  a  lovely  Amazon 
that  met  his  gaze,  but  a  huge  toad  stuck  fast  in  the 
tree,  into  which  he  had  probably  been  carried  by  the 
wind  when  he  was  about  the  size  of  a  bee.  How  long 
had  he  been  there?  Two  hundred,  three  hundred,  five 
hundred  years  perhaps.  He  was  five  inches  long  and 
three  inches  wide. 

Another  time  —  it  was  in  Normandie ,  when  he  and 
Taylor  were  making  the  tour  of  France  —  he  went  into 
a  church.  From  one  of  the  arches  hung  an  enormous 
spider  and  an  enormous  toad.  He  applied  to  a  peasant 
for  information  concerning  the  strange  couple. 

And  this  is  what  the  old  peasant  told  liim,  after  lead- 
ing him  to  one  of  the  flagstones  in  the  floor  of  the 
church,  whereon  was  carved  a  recumbent  knight  in  his 
armor. 

The  knight  was  a  baron  of  the  olden  time  who  had 
left  such  an  unsavory  memory  in  the  country  that  the 
boldest  men  turned  aside  in  order  not  to  step  on  his 
tomb,  not  from  respect  but  from  fear.  Above  the  tomb, 
in  fulfilment  of  a  vow  made  by  the  knight  on  his  death- 
bed, a  lamp  was  to  burn  night  and  day,  the  dead  man 
having  left  for  the  purpose  a  sum  of  money  which  was 
much  more  than  sufficient  therefor. 

One  fine  day,  or  rather  one  fine  night,  when,  as  it 
happened,  the  cur^  was  unable  to  sleep,  looking  from 
his  chamber  window,  which  looked  on  the  church,  he 
saw  the  lamp  flicker  and  go  out.  He  attributed  the 
matter  to  an  accident,  and  thought  no  more  about  it 
that  night. 

But  the  next  night,  as  he  happened  to  wake  about 


THE   ARSENAL.  177 

two  o'clock,  it  occurred  to  him  to  see  if  the  lamp  was 
burning.  He  got  out  of  bed,  went  to  the  window,  and 
saw  with  his  eyes  that  the  church  was  plunged  in  the 
most  profound  darkness. 

That  peculiar  circumstance,  occurring  twice  in  forty- 
eight  hours,  assumed  a  certain  seriousness.  The  next 
morning  at  daybreak,  the  cure  sent  for  the  beadle  and 
accused  him  flatly  of  having  put  the  oil  in  his  salad 
instead  of  in  the  lamp.  The  beadle  swore  by  all  the 
gods  that  it  was  not  so;  that  he  had  conscientiously 
filled  the  lamp  every  evening  during  the  fifteen  years 
he  had  held  his  office,  and  that  it  must  be  a  trick  of  the 
wicked  knight,  who,  after  tormenting  the  living  while 
he  lived,  was  beginning  to  torment  them  again  three 
hundred  years  after  his  death. 

The  cure  declared  that  he  placed  implicit  confidence 
in  the  beadle's  word,  but  that  he  desired  nevertheless 
to  be  present  when  the  lamp  was  filled  that  evening. 
Consequently,  at  nightfall,  the  oil  was  poured  into  the 
receptacle  and  the  lamp  lighted  in  the  cure's  presence. 
When  the  lamp  was  lighted  the  cure  locked  the  door  of 
the  church  with  his  own  hand,  put  the  key  in  his  pocket, 
and  went  home. 

He  took  a  breviary,  made  himself  comfortable  in  a 
capacious  arm-chair  by  the  window,  and  waited,  glan- 
cing alternately  at  the  book  and  the  church. 

About  midnight  he  saw  the  light  which  shone  through 
the  windows  grow  dim  and  die  out. 

That  time  it  was  certain  that  the  occurrence  was  due 
to  some  strange,  mysterious,  inexplicable  cause,  in 
which  the  poor  beadle  could  have  had  no  part. 

For  a  moment  the  cure  thought  that  thieves  had 
broken  into  the  church,  and  were  stealing  the  oil.  But 
assuming   that   the   offence  was  committed  by  thieves, 

12 


178      THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

they  must  be  very  honest  rascals  to  confine  themselves 
to  stealing  the  oil  and  to  leave  the  consecrated  vessels 
unmolested. 

It  was  not  the  work  of  thieves  therefore.  It  must  be 
due  to  some  cause  other  than  any  that  could  be  imagined, 
—  a  supernatural  cause  perhaps.  The  cure  determined 
to  discover  the  cause,  whatever  it  might  be. 

The  next  evening  he  himself  poured  the  oil  into  the 
lamp  to  make  sure  that  he  was  not  the  victim  of  any 
trick  of  legerdemain.  Then,  instead  of  going  out  as  he 
had  done  the  night  before,  he  hid  in  a  confessional. 

The  hours  passed,  the  lamp  shone  with  a  calm,  undis- 
turbed light.     The  clock  struck  twelve. 

The  cure  thought  that  he  heard  a  slight  noise,  as  if  a 
stone  were  moved  from  its  place.  Then  he  saw  the 
shadow  of  an  animal  with  gigantic  paws,  which  shadow 
climbed  a  pillar,  ran  along  the  cornice,  appeared  for  an 
instant  against  the  arched  roof,  then  slid  down  the  cord 
and  took  up  its  position  on  the  lamp,  which  began  to 
grow  dim,  flickered,  and  went  out. 

The  cure  found  himself  in  the  most  absolute  darkness. 
He  realized  that  he  must  repeat  the  experiment  and  take 
up  a  position  nearer  the  scene  of  action. 

Nothing  could  be  easier.  Instead  of  hiding  in  the 
confessional  which  was  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
church  from  the  lamp,  he  had  only  to  hide  in  the  one 
that  was  only  a  few  steps  away. 

He  did  everything  the  next  night  as  before,  therefore, 
except  that  he  changed  to  the  other  confessional  and 
provided  himself  with  a  dark  lantern. 

Up  to  midnight  there  was  the  same  tranquillity  and 
silence,  and  the  lamp  performed  its  duty  as  honestly  as 
ever.  But  at  the  last  stroke  of  midnight  there  was  the 
same  creaking  sound.     But  as  it  came  from  a  spot  within 


THE  ARSENAL.  179 

four  steps  of  the  confessional ,  the  cure  was  able  to  fix 
his  eyes  at  once  upon  that  spot.  The  noise  proceeded 
from  the  knight's  tomb. 

The  carved  flagstone  which  covered  the  sepulchre 
slowly  rose,  and  through  the  aperture  the  cure  saw  a 
spider  as  large  as  a  spaniel  come  forth,  with  hair  six 
inches  and  claws  an  ell  long ;  and  the  creature  began  at 
once,  without  hesitation,  without  looking  about  for  a 
road  which  was  evidently  familiar  to  him,  to  climb  the 
pillar,  run  along  the  cornice,  slide  down  the  cord,  and 
finally  drink  the  oil  in  the  lamp,  which  went  out  as 
usual . 

But  the  cure  then  had  recourse  to  his  dark  lantern, 
and  directed  its  rays  upon  the  knight's  tomb. 

He  thereupon  perceived  that  the  stone  was  held  up 
by  a  toad  as  large  as  a  porpoise,  which  raised  it  by 
inflating  its  body,  and  thus  gave  egress  to  the  spider, 
which  incontinently  pumped  out  the  oil,  and  then 
returned  to  divide  with  his  companion. 

Both  had  been  living  thus  for  centuries  in  that  tomb, 
where  they  would  in  all  probability  be  living  to  this 
day,  had  not  an  accident  revealed  to  the  cure  the 
presence  of  a  thief  of  some  sort  in  his  church. 

The  next  day  the  cure  summoned  assistance.  They 
raised  the  stone  and  put  to  death  the  insect  and  the 
reptile,  whose  bodies  were  suspended  from  the  ceiling 
and  bore  witness  to  the  extraordinary   event. 

Furthermore,  the  peasant  who  told  Nodier  the  story 
was  one  of  those  who  were  called  upon  by  the  curd  to 
fight  those  two  fellow-occupants  of  the  old  knight's 
tomb,  and  as  he  had  devoted  his  attention  especially  to 
the  toad,  a  drop  of  the  filthy  creature's  blood  had 
dropped  on  his  eye  and  had  very  nearly  made  him  as 
blind  as  Tobias. 


180   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  KECKLACE. 

He  had  escaped  with  the  loss  of  but  one  eye. 

So  far  as  Nodier  was  concerned,  the  stories  of  toads 
did  not  stop  there.  There  was  in  the  longevity  of  those 
creatures  something  that  charmed  Nodier's  imagination. 
And  so  all  the  tales  of  toads  a  hundred  or  a  thousand 
years  old  he  had  at  his  tongue's  end.  All  the  toads 
discovered  in  rocks  or  in  tree-trunks,  —  from  the  one 
found  in  1756  by  the  sculptor  Leprince,  at  Eretteville, 
in  a  rock  in  which  he  was  encased,  to  the  one  shut  up 
in  a  plaster  box  by  Herif sant  in  1771 ,  and  found  very 
much  alive  in  1774  when  the  box  was  opened,  were 
well  known  to  him.  When  any  one  asked  Nodier  what 
the  wretched  prisoners  lived  on,  he  would  reply  that 
they  swallowed  their  skins.  He  had  made  a  close  study 
of  a  fop  of  a  toad  who  had  a  new  skin  six  times  in  one 
winter,  and  swallowed  the  old  one  every  time.  As  for 
those  found  in  the  rocks  that  have  existed  since  the 
beginning  of  the  world,  as,  for  instance,  the  one  found 
in  the  quarry  of  Bourswick  in  Gothland,  the  state  of 
absolute  inaction  in  which  they  had  necessarily  lived, 
the  suspension  of  life  in  a  temperature  which  made  dis- 
solution impossible,  and  which  did  not  require  any  loss 
of  tissue  to  be  made  up,  the  moisture  which  kept  alive 
the  moisture  in  the  animal's  body  and  prevented  its 
destruction  by  desiccation, — those  things  seemed  to 
Nodier  sufficient  to  justify  a  conviction  in  which  there 
was  as  much  faith  as  science. 

Moreover  Nodier  had,  as  we  have  said,  a  certain 
natural  humility,  a  certain  tendency  to  belittle  himself, 
which  drew  him  toward  the  small  and  the  humble. 
Nodier  the  bibliophile  discovered  unknown  treasures  in 
the  way  of  books,  which  he  rescued  from  the  tomb  of 
libraries.  So  Nodier  the  philanthropist  found  among 
the  living,  unknown  poets,  whom  he  brought  to  light 


THE   ARSENAL.  181 

and  led  to  celebrity.  Injustice  of  every  sort,  oppression 
of  every  sort  was  revolting  to  him,  and  in  his  view 
mankind  oppressed  the  toad,  was  unjust  to  him,  and 
did  not  know  or  did  not  choose  to  know  the  toad's 
virtues.  The  toad  was  a  faithful  friend.  Nodier  had 
proved  that  fact  by  the  story  of  the  partnership  of  the 
toad  and  the  spider,  and,  if  called  upon  to  do  so,  he 
would  prove  it  twice  over  by  telling  another  anecdote  of 
a  toad  and  a  lizard  no  less  interesting  than  the  first. 
The  toad  was  therefore  not  only  a  good  friend,  but  a 
good  father  and  a  good  husband.  By  delivering  his  wife 
himself,  the  toad  gave  to  husbands  the  first  lessons  in 
conjugal  love.  By  protecting  the  eggs  of  his  family  with 
his  hind  paws,  and  by  carrying  them  on  his  back,  the 
toad  gave  to  heads  of  families  the  first  lesson  in  pater- 
nity. As  for  the  slaver  which  the  toad  exudes,  or  even 
squirts  sometimes  when  he  is  tormented,  Nodier  de- 
clared that  it  was  the  most  harmless  substance  in  the 
world,  and  he  preferred  it  to  the  saliva  of  many  critics 
of  his  acquaintance. 

It  was  not  that  those  critics  were  not  received  at  his 
house  like  other  people,  and  received  courteously  too, 
but  they  gradually  ceased  to  come  of  their  own  accord. 
They  did  not  feel  at  ease  in  the  atmosphere  of  kindli- 
ness which  was  the  natural  atmosphere  of  the  Arsenal, 
and  through  which  raillery  flashed  harmlessly,  like  the 
glow-worm  on  a  lovely  night  at  Nice  or  Florence;  that 
is  to  say,  it  cast  a  gleam  and  vanished. 

Conversing  thus,  we  would  draw  near  the  end  of  a 
delightful  dinner,  during  which  all  kinds  of  accidents, 
except  upsetting  the  salt  and  placing  a  loaf  of  bread  up- 
side down,  were  taken  philosophically.  Coffee  was 
served  at  the  table.  Nodier  was  at  heart  a  sybarite. 
He  had  a  thorough  appreciation  of  that  sentiment  of  the 


182   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

consummate  sensualist,  which  brooks  no  moving  about, 
no  change  of  place  between  the  dessert  and  the  beverage 
that  crowns  the  dessert.  During  that  moment  of  pure 
Asiatic  enjoyment,  Madame  Nodier  would  leave  her  seat 
to  go  and  light  the  salon.  As  I  did  not  take  coffee,  I  fre- 
quently accompanied  her.  My  long  body  was  of  great 
use  to  her  in  lighting  the  chandelier  without  standing 
on  a  chair. 

The  salon  was  not  lighted  until  then,  for,  before 
dinner  and  on  ordinary  days,  we  were  always  received 
in  Madame  Nodier's  bedroom.  The  candles  lighted  up 
walls  painted  white,  with  Louis  XV.  mouldings,  and 
furniture  of  a  very  modest  description,  consisting  of  a 
dozen  arm-chairs  and  a  couch  covered  with  red  cashmere, 
window-curtains  of  the  same  color,  a  bust  of  Hugo,  a 
statue  of  Henri  IV.,  a  portrait  of  Nodier,  and  an 
Alpine  landscape  by  E-egnier. 

The  guests  entered  the  salon  five  minutes  after  it  was 
lighted,  Nodier  last,  leaning  on  Dauzat's  arm,  or  on 
Bixio's  or  Francis  Wey's  or  mine,  always  puffing  and 
complaining  as  if  he  could  hardly  breathe.  Then  he 
would  stretch  himself  out  in  a  great  arm-chair  on  the 
right-hand  side  of  the  hearth,  his  legs  stretched  out  in 
front  of  him  and  his  arms  hanging,  or  else  he  would 
stand  in  front  of  the  mantelpiece  with  his  calves  to  the 
fire  and  his  back  to  the  mirror.  If  he  stretched  him- 
self out  in  the  arm-chair  there  was  no  hope.  Nodier, 
absorbed  by  the  momentary  beatitude  that  coffee  affords, 
proposed  to  play  the  egotist  and  to  follow  in  silence  the 
dream  of  his  imagination ;  but  if  he  leaned  against  the 
mantel,  that  was  another  matter:  that  meant  that  he 
was  going  to  talk.  Thereupon  everybody  would  hold 
his  peace  and  listen  to  one  of  the  fascinating  stories  of 
his  youth  which  seemed  like  a  novel  of  Longus  or  an 


THE   ARSENAL.  183 

idyl  of  Theocritus;  or  to  some  melancholy  drama  of 
the  Revolution,  of  which  a  battlefield  in  La  Vendee  or 
Place  de  la  Revolution  was  always  the  stage;  or  to 
some  mysterious  conspiracy  of  Cadoudal  or  Oudet,  Staps 
or  Lahorie.  They  who  came  in  while  he  was  talking 
would  not  speak,  hut  salute  with  a  wave  of  the  hand, 
and  sit  down  or  lean  against  the  wall.  At  last  the 
story  would  come  to  an  end,  as  everything  must.  We 
never  applauded,  any  more  than  we  would  applaud  the 
murmuring  of  a  brook  or  the  song  of  a  bird ;  but  when 
the  murmuring  had  died  away,  when  the  song  had 
ceased,  we  listened  still.  Thereupon  Marie,  without 
speaking,  would  go  to  the  piano,  and  suddenly  a  bril- 
liant volley  of  notes  would  rush  through  the  air  like 
the  prelude  to  a  display  of  fireworks.  At  that  signal 
the  card-players,  relegated  to  the  corners  of  the  room, 
would  take  their  places  at  the  tables  and  begin  to  play. 

For  a  long  time  Nodier  would  play  nothing  but 
bataille.  It  was  his  favorite  game ,  and  he  claimed  to 
be  very  strong  at  it.  At  last  he  made  a  concession  to 
the  age  and  played  ecart^. 

After  the  prelude  Marie  would  sing  some  of  Hugo's 
words  or  Lamartine's  or  mine,  set  to  music  by  herself; 
and  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  those  fascinating  melodies, 
which  were  always  too  short,  we  would  hear  the  refrain 
of  a  contra-dance.  Every  gentleman  would  select  his 
partner  and  a  ball  would  begin. 

A  charming  ball,  for  which  Marie  furnished  all  the 
music,  tossing  a  word,  amid  the  rapid  trills  executed  by 
her  fingers  on  the  keys,  to  those  who  approached  her  in 
every  "lady's  chain,"  every  "right  and  left,"  every 
"  chasse  across."  From  that  moment  Nodier  vanished, 
and  was  completely  forgotten.  For  he  was  not  one  of 
those   high-handed,   imperious  masters  whose  presence 


184      THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   VELVET   NECKLACE. 

you  can  feel,  and  whose  approach  you  divine.  He  was 
the  host  of  the  days  of  antiquity,  who  effaces  himself  to 
make  room  for  his  guest,  and  who  is  content  to  be 
courteous,  weak,  and  almost  feminine. 

Nodier,  after  disappearing  for  a  moment  or  two,  soon 
disappeared  altogether.  He  went  to  bed,  or  rather  he 
was  put  to  bed  early.  Madame  Nodier  was  intrusted 
with  that  duty.  In  winter  she  left  the  salon  first,  and 
sometimes,  when  there  were  no  hot  coals  in  the  kitchen, 
we  would  see  a  warming-pan  pass  the  door  and  return, 
filled,  to  the  bedroom.  Nodier  followed  the  warming- 
pan,  and  that  was  the  last  of  him. 

Ten  minutes  later  Madame  Nodier  would  return  to 
the  salon.  Nodier  was  safely  in  bed,  and  fell  asleep  to 
his  daughter's  melodies  and  the  stamping  and  laughter 
of  the  dancers. 

One  day  we  found  Nodier  even  more  humble  than 
usual.  He  was  embarrassed,  shamefaced.  We  asked 
him  anxiously  what  the  matter  was. 

Nodier  had  been  chosen  an  Academician. 

He  apologized  very  humbly  to  Hugo  and  me. 

But  it  was  no  fault  of  his.  The  Academy  had  chosen 
him  when  he  least  expected  it. 

The  fact  was  that  Nodier,  who  knew  as  much  as  all 
the  academicians  together,  had  demolished  the  Academy 
Dictionary  stone  by  stone.  He  used  to  say  that  the 
Immortal  who  was  assigned  to  write  the  article  crab 
showed  him  one  day  what  he  had  written,  and  asked 
him  what  he  thought  of  it. 

The  article  was  in  these  words :  — 

"  Crab,  a  small  red  fish,  which  walks  backward." 

"There's  only  one  mistake  in  your  definition," 
Nodier  replied.  "The  crab  isn't  a  fish,  it  is  n't  red, 
and  it  does  n't  walk  backward.     The  rest  is  perfect." 


THE   ARSENAL.  185 

I  forgot  to  say  that  in  due  time  Marie  Nodier  married, 
became  Madame  Menessier;  but  her  marriage  made 
absolutely  no  change  in  the  life  at  the  Arsenal.  Jules 
was  the  friend  of  all  of  us.  We  had  long  been  accus- 
tomed to  see  him  come  to  the  house.  He  lived  there  now 
instead  of  coming  there.     That  was  all  the  difference. 

I  am  wrong ;  a  great  sacrifice  had  been  consummated. 
Nodier  sold  his  library.  Nodier  loved  his  books,  but 
he  adored  Marie. 

I  must  say  further  that  no  one  could  make  the  repu- 
tation of  a  book  as  Nodier  could.  If  he  wished  to  sell 
a  book  or  make  a  sale  for  it,  he  would  write  an  article 
in  praise  of  it.  With  what  he  discovered  in  it,  he 
would  make  a  unique  copy.  I  remember  the  history  of 
a  volume  entitled  the  "  Zombi  du  Grand  Perou,"  which 
Nodier  claimed  was  printed  in  the  colonies,  and  the 
whole  edition  of  which  he  destroyed  on  his  own  respon- 
sibility. The  book  was  worth  five  francs,  and  he  made 
it  worth  three  hundred. 

Four  times  Kodier  sold  his  books,  but  he  always  kept 
a  certain  number,  a  precious  nucleus,  around  which,  in 
two  or  three  years,  his  library  would  be  reconstructed. 

One  day  all  our  delightful  meetings  were  interrupted. 
Nodier  had  been  more  ailing,  more  complaining  for  a 
month  or  two;  but  we  had  all  become  so  accustomed 
to  hear  him  complain  that  we  paid  no  great  attention  to 
his  complaints.  With  a  disposition  like  Nodier's  it  is 
very  hard  to  distinguish  between  real  and  imaginary 
suffering.  This  time,  however,  he  was  visibly  growing 
weaker.  Ko  more  sauntering  along  the  quays,  no  more 
promenades  on  the  boulevards,  only  a  slow  walk  in  the 
direction  of  Saint-Mande  when  a  last  ray  of  the  autumn 
sun  forced  its  way  through  the  gray  clouds. 

The  end  of  the  walk  was  a  wretched  wine-shop  where 


186      THE   WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

Nodier  used  to  regale  himself  with  brown  bread  in  his 
days  of  health.  He  was,  as  a  general  rule,  accompanied 
by  his  whole  family ,  except  Jules,  who  was  detained  at 
his  office.  Madame  Nodier,  Marie,  and  the  two  chil- 
dren, Charles  and  Georgette,  were  not  willing  to  leave 
the  husband,  father,  and  grandfather.  They  felt  that 
they  had  only  a  little  time  to  be  with  him,  and  they 
made  the  most  of  it. 

Up  to  the  last  moment  Nodier  insisted  that  Sunday 
should  be  observed  as  usual ;  but  at  last  it  was  evident 
that  the  sick  man  could  no  longer  endure  the  noise  and 
movement  in  the  salon.  One  day  Marie  sadly  informed 
us  that,  on  the  following  Sunday,  the  Arsenal  would  be 
closed;  but  she  added,  in  an  undertone,  to  the  most 
intimate  friends,  — 

"  Come,  and  we  will  talk." 

At  last  Nodier  took  to  his  bed ,  never  to  leave  it  again. 

I  went  to  see  him. 

"Ah!  my  dear  Dumas,"  he  said,  holding  out  his 
arms  to  me  the  moment  he  caught  sight  of  me,  "  in  the 
days  when  I  was  in  good  health,  you  had  only  a  friend 
in  me.  Since  I  have  been  sick,  you  have  in  me  a 
grateful  debtor.  I  cannot  work  any  more,  but  I  can 
still  read,  and  I  am  reading  you,  as  you  see;  and  when 
I  am  tired  I  call  my  daughter  and  she  reads  you," 

As  he  spoke  he  pointed  to  some  of  my  books  scattered 
over  his  bed  and  the  table. 

It  was  a  moment  of  genuine  pride.  Nodier,  isolated 
from  the  world  and  iinable  to  work,  Nodier,  that  bound- 
less mind,  who  knew  everything,  read  me  and  found 
entertainment  in  reading  me! 

I  took  his  hands.  I  would  have  liked  to  kiss  them, 
I  was  so  grateful. 

As  it  happened,  I  had  read  something  of  his  the  night 


THE   ARSENAL.  187 

before,  a  small  volume  which  had  appeared  in  two 
numbers  of  the  "  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes. "  It  was 
*  Ines  de  la  Sierra. " 

I  was  lost  in  admiration.  That  novel,  one  of 
Charles'  last  works,  was  so  fresh,  so  highly  colored, 
that  one  would  have  said  that  it  was  a  work  written  in 
his  younger  days,  which  he  had  found  and  sent  into  the 
world  on  the  other  slope  of  his  life. 

The  story  of  Ines  was  a  story  of  ghosts  and  phantoms 
and  spectres;  but,  though  it  was  entirely  fanciful  in 
the  first  part,  it  ceased  to  be  so  in  the  second.  The  end 
explained  the  beginning.  Oh !  I  complained  bitterly 
to  Nodier  of  that  explanation. 

"  True,"  he  said,  "  I  was  wrong;  but  I  have  another. 
I  won't  spoil  this  one,  never  fear." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  and  when  are  you  going  to 
•work  on  it  ?  " 

Nodier  took  my  hand. 

"This  one  I  shall  not  spoil,"  he  said,  "because  1 
shall  not  write  it." 

"Who  will  write  it?" 

"You." 

"  I,  my  dear  Charles ?     Why,  I  don't  know  it. 

"  I  will  tell  it  to  you.  I  have  been  keeping  it  for 
myself,  or  rather  for  you." 

"  My  dear  Charles,  you  shall  tell  it  to  me,  but  you 
must  write  it  and  print  it  yourself. " 

Nodier  shook  his  head. 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  it  to  you, "  he  said.  "  If  I 
recover,  you  can  give  it  back  to  me." 

"  Wait  till  my  next  visit;  we  have  time  enough." 

"  My  friend,  I  will  say  to  you  what  I  once  said  to  a 
creditor  when  I  gave  him  something  on  account:  '  Take 
it  when  you  can  get  it. '  " 


188   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

And  he  began. 

Never  did  Nodier  tell  a  story  so  entertainingly. 

Oh!  if  1  had  had  pen  and  paper,  if  I  could  have 
written  as  rapidly  as  he  talked ! 

It  was  a  long  story,  and  I  remained  to  dinner. 

After  dinner  Nodier  dozed.  I  left  the  Arsenal  with- 
out seeing  him  again.  That  was  the  last  time  I  ever 
saw  him  alive. 

Nodier,  whom  everybody  believed  to  be  so  ready  to 
complain  of  trifles,  had  on  the  contrary  concealed  his 
suffering  from  his  family  until  the  very  last.  When 
he  disclosed  the  wound,  it  was  seen  to  be  mortal. 

Nodier  was  not  only  a  Christian,  but  a  stanch  and 
true  Catholic.  He  had  made  Marie  promise  to  send  a 
priest  to  him  when  the  time  arrived.  The  time  arrived 
and  Marie  sent  for  the  cur^  of  Saint-Paul's. 

Nodier  confessed.  Poor  Nodier !  There  may  have 
been  many  sins  in  his  life,  but  there  certainly  was  not 
one  fault. 

When  the  confession  was  finished  the  whole  family 
entered  the  room. 

Nodier  was  in  a  dark  alcove,  from  which  he  held 
out  his  arms  over  his  wife  and  daughter  and  grand- 
children. 

Behind  the  family  were  the  servants. 

Behind  the  servants  the  library;  that  is  to  say,  those 
friends  who  never  change,  —  books. 

The  cur^  read  the  prayers  aloud,  and  Nodier  made 
the  responses  aloud,  like  one  familiar  with  the  Christian 
liturgy.  Then,  when  the  prayers  were  at  an  end,  he 
kissed  them  all,  talked  to  them  reassuringly  about  his 
condition,  and  said  that  lie  felt  that  he  should  live  a 
day  or  two  longer,  especially  if  he  was  allowed  to  sleep 
for  a  few  hours. 


THE   ARSENAL.  189 

They  left  him  alone ,  and  he  slept  five  hours. 

On  the  evening  of  January  26th,  the  eve  of  his  death, 
the  fever  increased,  and  caused  some  slight  delirium. 
About  midnight  he  could  not  recognize  anybody,  and 
his  lips  uttered  incoherent  words,  among  which  could 
be  distinguished  the  names  of  Tacitus  and  Fenelon, 

About  two  o'clock  death  began  to  knock  at  the  door. 
Nodier  had  a  violent  convulsion,  and  his  daughter 
leaned  over  his  pillow  and  held  to  his  lips  a  cup  filled 
with  a  quieting  draught.  He  opened  his  eyes,  looked 
at  Marie,  and  recognized  her  by  her  tears.  Then  he 
took  the  cup  from  her  hands  and  eagerly  drank  the 
liquid  it  contained. 

"  Did  it  taste  good  ?  "  Marie  asked  him. 

"  Oh,  yes!  my  child,  like  everything  that  comes  from 

you." 

Poor  Marie  let  her  head  fall  on  the  pillow,  covering 
the  dying  man's  moist  forehead  with  her  hair. 

"Oh!  if  you  would  stay  so,"  muttered  Nodier,  "I 
should  never  die."  ^ 

Death  was  still  knocking. 

The  extremities  began  to  grow  cold;  but  as  life  was 
driven  upward  more  and  more,  it  concentrated  in 
Nodier's  brain,  and  made  his  mind  clearer  than  it  had 
ever  been. 

He  blessed  his  wife  and  children,  and  then  asked 
what  day  of  the  month  it  was. 

"  The  27th  of  January,"  said  Madame  Nodier. 

"You  won't  forget  that  date,  will  you,  my  dears?  " 
said  he. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  window. 

1  Francis  Wey  has  published  a  most  interesting  account  of 
Nodier's  last  moments ;  but  it  was  written  for  the  intimate  friends 
alone,  and  but  twenty-five  copies  were  printed. 


190      THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   VELVET   NECKLACE. 

"  I  would  like  to  see  the  daylight  once  more,"  he  said 
with  a  sigh. 

He  fell  into  a  doze. 

Then  his  breath  became  intermittent. 

At  last,  just  as  the  first  ray  of  light  shone  in  at  the 
window,  he  opened  his  eyes,  looked  an  adieu,  and 
expired. 

With  Nodier  everything  died  at  the  Arsenal,  — joy, 
life,  and  light.  We  were  all  afflicted  alike.  Each  one 
lost  a  part  of  himself  in  losing  Nodier.  For  my  own 
part,  I  do  not  just  know  how  to  express  it,  but  there 
has  been  something  dead  within  me  since  Nodier  died. 

That  something  lives  only  when  I  speak  of  Nodier. 

That  is  why  I  speak  of  him  so  often. 

The  story  you  are  about  to  read  is  the  story  Nodier 
told  to  me. 


THE  HOFFMANN   FAMILY.  191 

n. 

THE   HOFFMANN   FAMILY. 

Among  the  enchanting  cities  that  are  scattered  along  the 
banks  of  the  Rhine  like  the  beads  of  a  rosary  of  which 
the  river  is  the  thread,  we  must  include  Mannheim,  the 
second  capital  of  the  grand  duchy  of  Baden  and  the 
second  residence  of  the  grand  duke. 

To-day,  when  the  steamers  which  ascend  and  descend 
the  Rhine  stop  at  Mannheim,  when  a  railroad  runs  to 
Mannheim,  when  Mannheim,  with  disheveled  hair  and 
blood-stained  robe,  has  hoisted  the  standard  of  rebellion 
against  her  grand  duke,  amid  the  roar  of  musketry,  I 
know  not  what  Mannheim  is ;  but  I  will  tell  you  what  it 
was  at  the  period  when  this  story  begins,  about  fifty-six 
years  ago. 

It  was  the  German  city  par  excellence,  at  once  tran- 
quil and  torn  by  political  strife,  a  little  melancholy,  or 
rather  a  little  dreamy ;  it  was  the  city  of  Auguste  Lafon- 
taine's  novels  and  of  the  poems  of  Goethe,  Henrietta 
Belmann,  and  Werther. 

Indeed  one  needed  but  to  cast  a  glance  at  Mannheim  to 
make  up  one's  mind  at  once,  at  sight  of  its  squarely 
aligned  houses,  its  division  into  four  quarters,  its  fine, 
broad  streets  in  which  the  grass  grew,  the  shady  prome- 
nade, between  a  double  row  of  acacias,  which  runs 
through  the  city  from  end  to  end,  to  make  up  one's 
mind,  I  say,  how  smooth-flowing  and  tranquil  life  would 
be  in  such  a  paradise,  were  it  not  that  sentimental  or 
political  passions  sometimes  placed  a  pistol  in  the  hand  of 
Werther  or  a  dagger  in  the  hand  of  Karl  Ludwig  Sand. 


192   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

There  is  one  square  which  has  an  entirely  unique 
aspect:  it  is  that  on  which  the  church  and  the  theatre 
stand  side  hy  side. 

Church  and  theatre  were  built  at  the  same  time,  prob- 
ably by  the  same  architect;  probably,  too,  about  the 
middle  of  the  last  century,  when  the  whims  of  a  favorite 
had  so  great  an  influence  upon  art  that  one  whole  branch 
of  art  took  her  name,  from  the  church  to  the  little  house 
of  the  kept  mistress,  from  the  bronze  statue  ten  cubits 
high  to  the  little  figure  in  Saxony  porcelain. 

The  church  and  theatre  of  Mannheim  are  in  the  Pom- 
padour style. 

The  church  has  two  exterior  recesses :  in  one  of  them 
is  a  Minerva,   in  the  other  a  Hebe. 

The  door  of  the  theatre  is  surmounted  by  two  sphinxes, 
representing  Comedy  and  Tragedy. 

One  of  the  two  sphinxes  has  a  mask  imder  his  paw, 
the  other  a  dagger.  Both  have  their  hair  combed  straight, 
with  powdered  chignon,  which  adds  wonderfully  to  their 
Egyptian  character. 

The  whole  square,  crooked  houses,  trimmed  trees,  fes- 
tooned walls,  have  the  same  general  character  and  form  a 
most  attractive  whole. 

A  room  on  the  first  floor  of  a  house  whose  windows 
look  diagonally  toward  the  doorway  of  the  Jesuit  church 
is  the  place  to  which  we  propose  to  conduct  our  readers, 
simply  reminding  them  that  we  are  taking  them  back 
more  than  half  a  century,  and  that  the  time  is  the  year 
of  grace,  or  disgrace,  1793,  and  the  day,  Sunday,  the 
10th  of  May.  Everything  is  in  bloom :  the  algse  on  the 
bank  of  the  river,  the  marguerites  in  the  fields,  the  haw- 
thorn in  the  hedges,  the  roses  in  the  gardens,  love  in  the 
heart. 

Now  let   us  add   this:  that  one  of  the  hearts  which 


THE   HOFFMANN   FAMILY.  193 

were  beating  most  violently  in  the  whole  city  of  Mann- 
heim and  its  neighborhood  was  that  of  the  young  man 
who  occupied  the  little  room  we  have  mentioned,  whose 
windows  looked  diagonally  toward  the  doorway  of  the 
Jesuit  church. 

Room  and  young  man  both  deserve  a  particular  de- 
scription. 

The  room  was  most  assuredly  the  habitation  of  a  mind 
that  was  both  whimsical  and  picturesque,  for  it  had  the 
appearance  of  a  studio,  a  music  shop,  and  a  study. 

There  were  a  palette,  brushes,  and  an  easel,  and  on  the 
easel  an  unfinished  sketch. 

There  were  a  guitar,  a  viola,  and  a  piano,  and  on  the 
piano  an  open  sonata. 

There  were  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and  on  the  paper  was 
scrawled  the  beginning  of  a  ballad. 

And  along  the  walls  there  were  bows  and  arrows, 
slings  of  the  fifteenth  century,  engravings  of  the  six- 
teenth, musical  instruments  of  the  seventeenth,  chests  of 
all  epochs,  drinking  vessels  of  all  shapes,  jugs  of  all 
kinds,  with  glass  necklaces,  feather  fans,  stuJBfed  snakes, 
dried  flowers,  a  whole  world  in  fact;  but  a  world  not 
worth  twenty-five  thalers  in  hard  cash. 

Was  the  occupant  of  the  room  a  painter,  a  musician,  or 
a  poet?     We  do  not  know. 

But  he  certainly  was  a  smoker;  for  among  all  his  col- 
lections, the  most  complete,  the  most  prominent,  occupy- 
ing the  place  of  honor  and  spread  out  in  the  sunlight 
above  an  old  couch,  was  a  collection  of  pipes. 

But  whatever  he  may  have  been,  poet,  musician, 
painter,  or  smoker,  for  the  moment  he  was  neither  smok- 
ing,  painting,   writing  scores,  nor  writing  poetry. 

No,  he  was  looking. 

He  was  standing  like  a  statue  against  the  wall,  holding 
13 


194   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

his  breath  and  looking;  he  was  looking  through  his  open 
window,  having  made  a  rampart  of  the  curtain,  in  order 
to  see  without  being  seen;  he  was  looking  as  one  looks 
when  the  eyes  are  only  the  spectacles  of  the  heart. 

What  was  he  looking  at  1 

A  spot  entirely  deserted  at  the  moment,  the  doorway 
of  the  Jesuit  church. 

To  be  sure  the  doorway  was  deserted  simply  because 
the  church  was  full. 

Now  let  us  say  a  word  as  to  the  personal  appearance 
of  the  young  man  who  occupied  that  room,  who  was 
looking  out  from  behind  the  curtain,  and  whose  heart 
beat  so  as  he  looked. 

He  was  a  young  man  of  eighteen  years  at  most,  short 
and  thin  and  wild  of  aspect.  His  long  black  hair  fell 
from  his  forehead  to  below  his  eyes,  which  it  veiled 
when  he  did  not  push  it  aside  with  his  hand,  and  through 
the  veil  thus  formed  by  his  hair  his  eyes  gleamed  wildly, 
like  the  eyes  of  a  man  whose  mental  faculties  are  not 
likely  always  to  remain  in  a  state  of  perfect  equilibrium. 

This  young  man  was  neither  poet,  painter,  nor  musi- 
cian ;  he  was  a  compound  of  all  three.  He  was  painting, 
music,  and  poetry  united;  he  was  an  eccentric,  curious 
whole,  good  and  bad,  brave  and  timid,  active  and  indolent. 
The  young  man,  in  a  word,  was  Ernst  Theodor  Wilhelm 
Hoffmann. 

He  was  born  on  a  rough  night  in  the  winter  of  1776, 
while  the  wind  was  blowing,  the  snow  falling,  and  every- 
body who  was  not  rich  suffering.  He  was  born  at  Konigs- 
berg,  in  the  heart  of  Old  Prussia ;  born  so  feeble  and  frail 
and  puny,  that  his  diminutive  stature  led  every  one  to 
believe  that  it  was  much  more  important  to  order  a  grave 
dug  for  him  than  to  buy  a  cradle.  He  was  born  in  the 
same  year  in  which  Schiller,  writing  his  drama  of  the 


THE   HOFFMANN   FAMILY.  195 

"  Brigands,"  signed  himself  Schiller,  the  slave  ofKlop- 
stock;  born  of  one  of  the  old  middle-class  families,  such 
as  we  had  in  France  in  the  days  of  the  Fronde,  such  as 
there  still  are  in  Germany,  but  such  as  will  soon  cease  to 
exist  anywhere  in  the  world ;  born  of  a  mother  who  was 
of  a  sickly  constitution,  but  devoutly  resigned  to  her  lot, 
to  which  fact  his  whole  unhealthy  person  owed  its  aspect 
of  attractive  melancholy;  born  of  a  father  of  stern  mind 
and  bearing,  who  was  criminal  councillor  and  commis- 
sioner of  justice  in  the  superior  provincial  tribunal.  Be- 
side the  father  and  mother  there  were  uncles  who  were 
judges,  bailiffs,  burgomasters,  and  aunts  still  young  and 
fair  and  coquettish ;  and  all,  aunts  and  uncles  alike,  mu- 
sicians, artists,  full  of  energy  and  sprightliness.  Hoff- 
mann said  that  he  had  seen  them.  He  remembered  them 
when  he  was  a  child  of  six  and  eight  and  ten  years,  giving 
strange  concerts,  in  which  each  one  played  on  one  of  the 
old  instruments  of  which  no  one  knows  even  the  names 
to-day :  tympana,  rebecs,  zithers,  citherns,  violes  d* amour, 
and  violes  de  gamba.  To  be  sure,  no  one  except  Hoff- 
mann had  ever  seen  these  musical  uncles  and  aunts,  all 
of  whom  withdrew,  one  after  another,  like  spectres,  ex- 
tinguishing, as  they  withdrew,  the  lights  that  burned  in 
their  music-stands. 

But  of  all  those  uncles  there  remained  one ;  of  all  those 
aunts  there  remained  one. 

That  aunt  was  one  of  Hoffmann's  most  delightful 
memories. 

In  the  house  in  which  Hoffmann  had  passed  his  youth, 
there  lived  a  sister  of  his  mother,  a  young  woman  whose 
sweet  glances  went  to  the  very  bottom  of  the  soul;  a 
gentle,  intellectual  young  woman,  of  remarkably  keen 
insight,  who  discerned  in  the  child  whom  every  one  took 
for  a  fool,  a  lunatic,  or  a  maniac,  signs  of  a  powerful 


196      THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   VELVET   NECKLACE. 

mind;  who  alone  pleaded  for  him, —  with  his  mother,  be 
it  understood ;  who  predicted  for  him  genius  and  renown, 
a  prediction  that  more  than  once  brought  tears  to  the  eyes 
of  Hoffmann's  mother,  for  she  knew  that  disaster  is  the 
inseparable  companion  of  genius  and  renown. 

That  aunt  was  Aunt  Sophia.  She  was  a  musician  like 
the  whole  family,  and  played  the  lute.  When  Hoffmann 
awoke  in  his  cradle,  he  awoke  amid  billows  of  delicious 
melody;  when  he  opened  his  eyes,  he  saw  the  young 
woman's  graceful  form  wedded  to  her  instrument.  She 
was  generally  clad  in  a  sea-green  dress  with  red  ribbons ; 
she  was  generally  accompanied  by  an  old  musician  with 
crooked  legs  and  a  white  wig,  who  played  a  bass-viol 
taller  than  himself,  to  which  he  clung,  running  up  and 
down  like  a  lizard  on  a  gourd.  From  that  torrent  of 
harmony,  falling  like  a  cascade  of  pearls  from  the  fair 
Euterpe's  fingers,  Hoffmann  had  imbibed  the  enchanted 
potion  that  had  made  him  a  musician  himself. 

So  it  happened  that  Aunt  Sophia  was,  as  we  have  said, 
one  of  Hoffmann's  most  delightful  memories. 

It  was  not  so  with  his  uncle. 

The  death  of  Hoffmann's  father  and  his  mother's  ill- 
health  had  left  him  in  that  uncle's  hands. 

He  was  a  man  as  methodical  as  Hoffmann  was  unme- 
thodical, as  severely  commonplace  as  Hoffmann  was 
strange  and  eccentric,  and  his  passion  for  order  and  regu- 
larity was  constantly  exerted  over  his  nephew,  but  always 
as  fruitlessly  as  the  Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth's  will  was 
exerted  over  his  clocks;  the  uncle  labored  in  vain,  the 
clock  struck  according  to  his  nephew's  whim  and  not 
according  to  his  own. 

In  reality,  despite  his  methodical  habits  and  his  regu- 
larity, this  uncle  of  Hoffmann's  was  no  bitter  enemy  of 
art  and  the  imagination.     He  would  even  tolerate  music, 


THE   HOFFMANN   FAMILY.  197 

poetry,  and  painting;  but  he  declared  that  no  man  of 
common  sense  would  ever  resort  to  such  enervating  pur- 
suits, except  to  facilitate  digestion,  immediately  after 
dinner.  He  arranged  Hoffmann's  life  on  this  theory :  so 
many  hours  for  sleep,  so  many  hours  for  his  legal  studies, 
so  many  hours  for  meals;  so  many  minutes  for  painting, 
so  many  minutes  for  music,  so  many  minutes  for  poetry. 

Hoffmann  would  have  liked  to  reverse  the  programme 
and  say :  so  many  minutes  for  study  for  the  bar,  and  so 
many  hours  for  poetry,  painting,  and  music;  but  Hoff- 
mann was  not  his  own  master.  The  result  was  that  he 
had  conceived  a  horror  of  the  bar  and  of  his  uncle,  and 
that  one  fine  day  he  ran  away  from  Konigsberg  with  a 
few  thalers  in  his  pocket,  and  found  his  way  to  Heidel- 
berg, where  he  halted  for  a  few  moments,  but  where  he 
could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  remain  because  of  the 
wretched  music  at  the  theatre. 

So  he  had  gone  from  Heidelberg  to  Mannheim,  whose 
theatre  —  near  which  he  had,  as  we  have  seen,  taken  up 
his  quarters  —  was  reputed  to  rival  France  and  Italy  in 
lyric  productions.  We  say  France  and  Italy,  because  it 
must  not  be  forgotten  that  it  was  only  five  or  six  years 
prior  to  the  time  of  which  we  are  writing  that  the  great 
struggle  took  place  between  Gluck  and  Piccini. 

Hoffmann,  therefore,  was  at  Mannheim,  where  he  had 
lodgings  near  the  theatre,  and  where  he  was  living  on  the 
proceeds  of  his  painting,  his  music,  and  his  poetry,  added 
to  a  few  gold  fredericks  which  his  good  mother  sent  him 
from  time  to  time,  at  the  moment  when,  assuming  the 
privilege  of  the  Lame  Devil,  we  raise  the  ceiling  of  his 
room  and  exhibit  him  to  our  readers,  standing  like  a  statue 
against  the  wall  behind  his  curtain,  breathing  hard,  with 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  doorway  of  the  Jesuit  church. 


198   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACK 

III. 

A   LOVEB   AND   A  MADMAN. 

Just  at  the  moment  when  a  few  persons  who  came  out 
of  the  Jesuit  Church,  although  the  mass  was  hardly  half 
finished,  made  Hoffmann  more  watchful  than  ever,  some 
one  knocked  at  his  door.  The  young  man  shook  his 
head,  and  stamped  his  foot  impatiently,  but  did  not 
reply. 

The  knock  was  repeated. 

Hoffmann  darted  a  fierce  glance  at  the  intruder  through 
the  door. 

Again  the  knocking  was  repeated. 

That  time  the  young  man  stood  absolutely  motionless. 
He  had  evidently  determined   not   to   open   the   door. 

But  instead  of  persisting  in  knocking,  the  visitor 
contented  himself  by  calling  one  of  Hoffman's  Christian 
names. 

"Theodor,"  he  said. 

"Ah!  it  is  you,  Zacharias  Werner,"  murmured  the 
young  man. 

"  Yes,  it  is  I.     Do  you  wish  to  be  alone  ?  " 

"No,  wait."  And  Hoffmann  went  and  opened  the 
door. 

A  tall  young  man,  pale  and  thin  and  fair,  and  some- 
what wild  of  aspect,  entered  the  room.  He  was  per- 
haps three  or  four  years  older  than  Hoffmann.  As  soon 
as  the  door  opened,  he  put  his  hand  on  Hoffmann's 
shoulder  and  his  lips  to  his  forehead  as  an  elder  brother 
might  have  done. 


A  LOVER   AND   A  MADMAN.  199 

He  was,  in  fact,  a  true  brother  to  Hoflfmann.  Born 
in  the  same  house  that  he  was,  Zacharias  Werner,  the 
future  author  of  "Martin  Luther,"  « Attila,"  "The 
24th  of  February,"  and  the  "Cross  of  the  Baltic,"  had 
grown  to  manhood  under  the  twofold  protection  of  his 
own  mother  and  Hoffmann's. 

The  two  women,  both  of  whom  were  subject  to  a 
nervous  affection  which  ended  in  madness,  had  trans- 
mitted that  malady  to  their  children.  Being  weakened 
by  the  transmission,  it  became  in  Hoffmann's  case 
capriciousness  of  the  imagination,  and  in  Werner's 
a  melancholy  temperament.  The  mother  of  the  latter 
believed  that,  like  the  Blessed  Virgin,  she  had  a  divine 
mission.  Her  child,  her  Zacharias,  was  to  be  the  new 
Christ,  the  future  Siloe  promised  by  the  Scriptures. 
While  he  slept  she  wove  wreaths  of  bluebells  which 
she  placed  on  his  brow.  She  knelt  beside  him,  singing, 
in  her  sweet  melodious  voice,  Luther's  noblest  chants, 
hoping,  at  every  verse,  to  see  the  wreath  of  bluebells 
change  to  a  halo. 

The  two  children  were  brought  up  together.  The 
fact  that  Zacharias  was  at  Heidelberg,  where  he  was 
studying,  was  Hoffmann's  principal  reason  for  flying 
from  his  uncle's,  and  Zacharias,  repaying  one  good  turn 
by  another,  had  left  Heidelberg  and  joined  Hoffmann 
at  Mannheim,  when  he  went  thither  in  quest  of  better 
music  than  he  found  at  Heidelberg. 

But  when  they  were  together  at  Mannheim,  far 
removed  from  the  influence  of  that  sweet-natured 
mother,  the  young  men  were  seized  with  an  eager  long- 
ing for  travel,  that  indispensable  complement  to  the 
education  of  the  German  student,  and  had  determined 
to  visit  Paris.  Werner,  because  of  the  strange  spectacle 
that  the  capital  of  France  must  present  in  the  throes  of 


200      THE   WOMAN   WITH  THE   VELVET   NECKLACE. 

the  Reign  of  Terror,  which  was  at  its  height;  Hoffmann, 
in  order  to  compare  French  and  Italian  music,  and 
especially  to  study  the  resources  of  the  French  opera  in 
the  matter  of  stage  setting  and  scenery,  for  he  had  at 
that  time  the  idea  that  he  cherished  throughout  his  life 
of  becoming  manager  of  a  theatre. 

Werner,  a  libertine  by  temperament,  although 
religious  by  education,  proposed  at  the  same  time  to 
take  advantage  for  his  own  pleasure  of  the  strange  free- 
dom in  the  matter  of  morals  at  which  the  French  people 
had  arrived  in  1793,  and  which  one  of  his  friends, 
recently  returned  from  Paris,  had  described  to  him  in 
such  seductive  colors,  that  the  pleasure-loving  student's 
head  had  been  turned  thereby. 

Hoffmann  intended  to  see  the  museums  of  which  he 
had  heard  so  many  marvellous  tales,  and,  being  still 
uncertain  as  to  his  own  style,  to  compare  Italian  paint- 
ing with  German  painting. 

Whatever  the  secret  motives  may  have  been  that 
impelled  the  friends  to  visit  France,  the  longing  was 
equal  in  both  cases. 

To  gratify  that  longing  they  lacked  but  one  thing,  — 
money.  But,  by  a  strange  coincidence,  chance  decreed 
that  Zacharias  and  Hoffmann  had  each  received  five 
gold  fredericks  from  his  mother  on  the  same  day. 

Ten  gold  fredericks  were  equal  to  almost  two  hundred 
francs,  and  that  was  a  very  pretty  little  sum  for  two 
students,  who  spent  but  five  thalers  a  month  for  board, 
lodging,  and  fuel.  But  that  sum  was  entirely  insuffi- 
cient for  the  needs  of  the  famous  journey  they  had 
planned. 

An  idea  had  occurred  to  the  two  young  men,  and, 
as  it  had  occurred  to  them  both  at  once,  they  had  taken 
it  as  an  inspiration  from  heaven.. 


A  LOVER   AND   A   MADMAN.  20X 

It  was  to  go  to  a  gambling-house  and  risk  each  his 
five  gold  fredericks. 

With  no  more  than  the  ten  fredericks  the  journey  was 
impossible.  By  risking  them  they  might  win  enough 
to  make  the  tour  of  the  world. 

It  was  no  sooner  said  than  done.  The  season  for 
taking  the  waters  was  drawing  near,  and  the  gambling- 
houses  had  been  open  since  the  first  of  May.  Werner 
and  Hoffmann  betook  themselves  to  one  of  them. 

Werner  tried  his  luck  first  and  lost  his  five  fredericks 
in  five  minutes.     It  was  Hofi'mann's  turn. 

Hoffmann  tremblingly  risked  his  first  gold  frederick 
and  won. 

Encouraged  by  that  beginning  he  doubled  his  stake. 
He  had  struck  a  vein  of  good  luck.  He  won  four  times 
out  of  five,  and  he  was  one  of  those  who  have  confidence 
in  luck.  Instead  of  hesitating  he  went  boldly  on, 
doubling  and  doubling.  It  was  as  if  some  supernatural 
power  were  assisting  him.  Without  definite  plan, 
without  any  sort  of  calculation,  he  staked  his  gold  upon 
a  card,  and  his  gold  doubled,  trebled,  quadrupled. 
Zacharias,  trembling  more  violently  than  a  fever 
patient,  and  paler  than  a  ghost,  murmured,  "Enough, 
Theodor,  enough;  "  but  the  gambler  laughed  at  his 
childish  timidity.  Gold  followed  gold  and  gold  begat 
gold.  At  last  the  clock  struck  two  in  the  morning,  the 
hour  for  closing  had  arrived,  and  the  game  ceased.  The 
two  young  men  loaded  themselves  down  with  gold,  with- 
out stopping  to  count  it.  Zacharias,  who  could  not 
believe  that  that  wealth  was  all  his,  went  out  first. 
Hoff"mann  was  about  to  follow  him,  when  an  old  officer, 
who  had  not  taken  his  eyes  off  him  all  the  time  he  had 
been  playing,  stopped  him  as  he  was  going  out  of  the 
door. 


202      THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE  VELVET   NECKLACE. 

"  Young  man,"  he  said,  laying  his  hand  on  Hoffmann's 
and  gazing  earnestly  at  him,  "  if  you  go  on  at  this  rate 
you  will  break  the  bank,  I  agree;  but  when  the  bank  is 
broken,  you  will  be  only  the  surer  prey  for  the  devil." 

He  disappeared  without  waiting  for  Hoffmann  to 
reply.  Hoffmann  also  went  out,  but  he  was  no  longer 
the  same  man.  The  old  soldier's  prophecy  had  chilled 
him  like  an  ice-cold  bath,  and  the  gold  with  which  his 
pockets  were  filled  weighed  heavily  upon  him.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if  he  were  carrying  his  burden  of  evil 
deeds. 

Werner  was  waiting  for  him  in  high  glee.  They 
returned  together  to  Hoffmann's  lodging,  one  laughing 
and  dancing  and  singing;  the  other  lost  in  thought, 
almost  dejected. 

Both,  however,  decided  to  start  for  France  the  next 
day. 

They  embraced  and  parted. 

Hoffmann,  when  he  was  alone,  counted  his  gold. 

He  had  five  thousand  thalers,  twenty -three  or  twenty- 
four  thousand  francs. 

He  reflected  a  long  while,  and  at  last  seemed  to  make 
up  his  mind  to  a  difficult  step. 

While  he  was  reflecting,  by  the  light  of  a  copper 
lamp,  his  face  was  pale  and  the  perspiration  was 
streaming  from  his  brow. 

At  the  slightest  soimd  in  the  room,  though  it  were  as 
indistinguishable  as  the  fluttering  of  a  fly's  wing,  he 
started,  turned  his  head  and  looked  all  around  in  alarm. 

The  officer's  prediction  returned  to  his  mind.  He 
murmured  under  his  breath  certain  lines  of  "  Faust," 
and  he  fancied  that  he  could  see  on  the  threshold  the 
gnawing  rat,  in  the  corner  of  his  room  the  black 
spaniel. 


A  LOVER   AND   A  MADMAN.  203 

At  last  his  decision  was  made. 

He  put  aside  a  thousand  thalers  which  he  considered 
amply  sufficient  for  his  journey,  and  tied  the  other  four 
thousand  thalers  in  a  bundle.  Then  he  fastened  a  card 
upon  the  bundle  with  wax,  and  wrote  on  the  card, — 

"  To  the  Herr  Burgomaster  of  Konigsberg,  to  be  distri- 
buted among  the  poorest  families  of  the  town." 

Then,  content  with  the  victory  he  had  won  over 
himself,  comforted  by  what  he  had  done,  he  undressed, 
went  to  bed,  and  slept  without  waking  until  seven 
o'clock  in  the  morning. 

At  seven  o'clock  he  awoke,  and  his  first  glance  was 
for  his  thousand  visible  thalers  and  the  sealed  package 
containing  the  other  four  thousand.  He  thought  that 
he  had  been  dreaming. 

The  sight  of  the  gold  assured  him  of  the  reality  of 
what  had  happened  the  night  before. 

But  the  thing  that  was  most  real  to  Hoffmann, 
although  there  was  no  material  object  to  remind  him 
of  it,  was  the  old  officer's  prediction. 

And  so,  without  the  slightest  regret,  he  dressed  as 
usual;  and,  taking  his  four  thousand  thalers  under  his 
arm,  he  carried  them  himself  to  the  office  of  the 
Konigsberg  diligence,  having  first  taken  the  precaution 
to  deposit  the  thousand  thalers  in  his  drawer. 

Then,  as  it  had  been  agreed,  as  the  reader  will 
remember,  that  the  two  friends  should  start  for  France 
that  evening,  Hoffmann  began  to  make  his  preparations 
for  the  journey. 

As  he  went  and  came,  now  brushing  a  coat,  now 
folding  a  shirt,  now  sorting  out  his  handkerchiefs, 
Hoffmann  cast  his  eyes  into  the  street,  and  remained 
standing  in  the  attitude  he  had  assumed  at  that  instant. 


204   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE, 

A  young  girl  of  sixteen  or  seventeen  years,  a  fascinat- 
ing creature,  certainly  a  stranger  in  Mannheim,  as 
Holfmann  did  not  know  her  by  sight,  was  coming  from 
the  other  end  of  the  street  toward  the  church. 

Hoifmann  had  never  seen  her  like  in  all  his  dreams 
as  poet,  painter,  or  musician. 

She  not  only  surpassed  all  that  he  had  ever  seen,  but 
all  that  he  hoped  to  see. 

And  yet  he  was  so  far  away  that  he  could  see  only  a 
ravishing  ensemble.     The  details  eluded  him. 

The  girl  was  attended  by  an  old  serving-woman.  They 
slowly  ascended  the  church  steps  together  and  disap- 
peared under  the   doorway. 

Hoffman  left  his  trunk  half  packed,  a  wine-colored 
coat  half  brushed,  his  frogged  coat  half  folded,  and 
remained  motionless  behind   his  curtain. 

That  is  where  we  found  him,  waiting  for  her  whom 
he  had  seen  go  in  to  come  out. 

He  dreaded  but  one  thing,  —  that  she  was  an  angel , 
and  that,  instead  of  coming  out  by  the  door,  she 
would  fly  out  through  the  window  on  her  way  back 
to  heaven. 

It  was  in  that  situation  that  we  caught  him,  and  that 
his  friend  Zacharias  caught  him  after  us. 

The  new-comer,  as  we  have  said,  placed  his  hand 
on  his  friend's  shoulder,  and  his  lips  on  his  brow 
simultaneously. 

Then  he  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

Although  Zacharias  Werner  was  always  pale,  he  was 
paler  than  usual  at  that  moment. 

"What's  the  matter?"  Hoffmann  asked  with  un- 
feigned anxiety. 

"0  my  friend!  "  cried  Werner.  "  I  am  a  brigand  I 
I  am  a  villain !  I  deserve  death !     Cleave  my  head  with 


A  LOVEE   AND   A   MADMAN.  205 

an  axe,  pierce  my  heart  with  an  arrow.  I  am  no  longer 
worthy  to  look  upon  the  light  of  heaven." 

"  Nonsense !  "  said  Hoffmann,  with  the  placidly 
ahsent-minded  air  of  the  happy  man,  "what  has  hap- 
pened to  you,  my  dear  friend  ?  " 

"  What  has  happened  ?  You  asked  me  what  has 
happened,  didn't  you?  Well,  my  friend,  the  devil 
tempted  me!  " 

"What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  That  when  I  saw  all  my  gold  this  morning,  there 
was  so  much  of  it  that  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  must  have 
dreamed  about  it. " 

"Dreamed  about  it?" 

"  There  was  a  table  all  covered  with  it,"  Werner 
continued.  "  Well,  when  I  saw  it,  a  veritable  fortune, 
a  thousand  gold  fredericks,  my  friend,  —  when  I  saw  it 
all,  when  I  saw  every  piece  gleaming  like  the  sun,  a 
frenzy  seized  me.  I  could  not  resist.  I  took  a  third 
of  my  money  and  went  to  the  gambling-house." 

"  And  you  lost  ?  " 

"  To  my  last  kreutzer. " 

"  What 's  the  odds?  It 's  a  small  matter,  as  you  have 
two-thirds  left." 

"  Ah,  yes!  two-thirds!  I  went  back  and  got  the 
second  third  and  —  " 

"  And  you  lost  it  like  the  first  ?  " 

"More  quickly,  my  friend,  more  quickly." 

"  And  then  you  went  back  and  got  the  last  third  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  go  back,  I  flew.  I  took  the  fifteen  hundred 
francs  that  were  left  and  put  them  on  the  red." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Hoffmann,  "black  came  up,  I 
presume?  " 

"Ah!  my  friend,  black,  the  horrible  black,  without 
hesitation,  without  remorse,  as  if  it  did  not,  by  coming 


206      THE   WOMAN  WITH   THE   VELVET   NECKLACE, 

up,  snatch  away  my  last  hope!  Gone,  my  friend, 
gone!  " 

"  And  you  regret  the  loss  of  the  thousand  fredericks 
solely  on  account  of  our  journey  1  " 

"For  no  other  reason.  Oh!  if  I  had  only  put  aside 
enough  to  take  me  to  Paris  —  five  hundred  thalers !  " 

"  Then  you  would  be  consoled  for  the  loss  of  the 
rest?" 

"Instantly." 

"Ah,  well!  set  your  mind  at  rest  at  once,  my  dear 
Zacharias,"  said  Hoffmann,  leading  him  to  his  desk. 
"  There  are  your  five  hundred  thalers,  —  go. " 

"What!  you  hid  me  go?"  cried  Werner.  "What 
about  yourself  ?  " 

"Oh!  I  do  not  intend  to  go." 

«  You  don't  intend  to  go  1  " 

"  No,  not  at  this  moment,  at  all  events." 

"  But  Avhy  not  1  What  is  your  reason  1  What  pre- 
vents your  going  ?     What  keeps  you  at  Mannheim  1  " 

Hoffmann  hastily  drew  his  friend  to  the  window. 
The  mass  was  at  an  end,  and  people  were  beginning  to 
leave  the  church. 

"  There,  look,  look!  "  he  said,  pointing  out  somebody 
to  Werner  with  his  finger. 

The  unknown  girl  appeared  at  that  moment  in  the 
doorway  and  slowly  descended  the  church  steps,  her 
prayer-book  against  her  breast,  her  eyes  cast  down,  as 
modest  and  pensive  as  Goethe's  Gretchen. 

"  Do  you  see  1  "  murmured  Hoffmann.  *  Do  you 
see  ?  " 

"Certainly  I  see." 

"  Well ,  what  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  say  that  there  's  no  woman  for  whom  it  is  worth 
sacrificing  a  trip  to  Paris,  though  she  were  the  fair 


A  LOVER  AND  A  MADMAN.  207 

Antonia,  daughter  of  old  Gottlieb  Murr,  the  new  leader 
of  the  orchestra  at  the  Mannheim  theatre. " 

"  You  know  her  then  1  " 

"Certainly." 

"  And  you  know  her  father  1  " 

"  He  led  the  orchestra  at  the  Frankfort  theatre. " 

"  Can  you  give  me  a  letter  to  him  1  " 

"Surely." 

"  Sit  you  down  there,  Zacharias,  and  write." 

Zacharias  sat  down  at  the  table  and  wrote. 

On  the  eve  of  his  departure  for  France  he  commended 
his  young  friend  Theodor  Hoffmann  to  his  old  friend 
Gottlieb  Murr. 

Hoffmann  hardly  gave  Zacharias  time  to  finish  his 
letter.  As  soon  as  he  had  signed  his  name,  he  took  it, 
and,  after  embracing  his  friend,  rushed  from  the  room. 

"  Never  mind,"  Zacharias  Werner  called  after  him. 
"  You  will  see  that  the  woman  does  n't  live,  however 
pretty  she  may  be,  who  can  make  you  forget  Paris." 

Hoffmann  heard  his  friend's  words,  but  did  not  think 
best  to  turn  and  respond  to  them  even  by  a  gesture  of 
assent  or  dissent. 

Zacharias  Werner  put  his  five  hundred  thalers  in  his 
pocket,  and,  in  order  to  avoid  any  further  temptation 
by  the  demon  of  play,  ran  as  fast  toward  the  stage-office 
as  Hoffmann  ran  toward  the  house  of  the  old  leader  of 
the  orchestra. 

Hoffmann  knocked  at  Gottlieb  Murr's  door  at  the 
same  moment  that  Werner  entered  the  Strasburg 
diligence. 


208   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 


IV. 

MASTER   GOTTLIEB   MUBB. 

The  leader  of  the  orchestra  in  person  opened  the  door 
to  Hoffmann. 

Hoffmann  had  never  seen  Master  Gottlieh,  and  yet 
he  recognized  him.  Grotesque  as  he  was  in  appearance, 
he  could  be  nothing  but  an  artist,  and  a  great  artist  at 
that. 

He  was  a  little  old  man  of  some  fifty-five  to  sixty 
years,  with  one  crooked  leg  which  resembled  a  cork- 
screw, and  yet  he  did  not  limp  overmuch.  As  he 
walked,  or  rather  hopped,  — his  hop  greatly  resembled  a 
wagtail's,  —  as  he  hopped  along  in  front  of  the  persons 
he  admitted  to  his  house,  he  would  suddenly  stop, 
make  a  pirouette  on  his  crooked  leg,  as  if  he  were 
screwing  a  gimlet  into  the  floor,  and  then  go  forward 
again. 

Hoffmann,  as  he  followed  him,  examined  him  closely 
and  engraved  upon  his  mind  one  of  those  marvellous, 
weird  portraits  of  which  he  has  given  us  such  a  complete 
gallery  in  his  works. 

The  old  man's  face  was  enthusiastic,  shrewd,  and 
intellectual  at  once,  covered  with  parchment-like  skin, 
spotted  red  and  black  like  a  page  of  plain-song.  In  the 
middle  of  that  curious  surface  gleamed  two  bright  ey^s, 
whose  keen  glance  one  could  the  better  appreciate 
because  the  spectacles  that  he  wore  and  never  laid  aside , 
even  in  his  sleep,  were  invariably  on  top  of  his  head  or 


MASTER   GOTTLIEB  MXTRIl.  209 

at  the  end  of  his  nose.  It  was  only  when  he  was  play- 
ing on  the  violin,  with  head  erect  and  looking  oflf  into 
the  distance,  that  he  really  used  what  seemed  to  be 
rather  a  luxury  than  a  necessity  to  him. 

His  head  was  bald  and  always  protected  by  a  black 
cap,  which  had  become  an  inherent  part  of  his  person. 
Day  and  night  Master  Gottlieb  received  his  visitors  in 
his  cap.  And  when  he  went  out  he  simply  wore  a 
small  Jean- Jacques  wig  over  it;  so  that  the  cap  was 
confined  between  the  wig  and  his  skull.  It  goes  with- 
out saying  that  Master  Gottlieb  never  troubled  himself 
in  the  least  about  the  bit  of  velvet  that  protruded  from 
under  his  false  hair,  which  being  more  closely  connected 
with  the  hat  than  with  the  head,  accompanied  the  hat 
in  its  aerial  excursions  whenever  Master  Gottlieb  saluted 
an  acquaintance. 

Hoffmann  looked  about,  but  saw  nobody. 

So  he  followed  Master  Gottlieb,  who,  as  we  have 
said,  walked  in  front  of  him,  wherever  he  chose  to 
lead. 

Master  Gottlieb  paused  in  a  large  study  filled  with 
scores  piled  one  upon  another,  and  loose  sheets  of 
music.  Upon  a  table  were  ten  or  twelve  boxes,  more 
or  less  ornate,  and  all  of  the  shape  which  no  musician 
ever  mistakes,  the  shape  of  a  violin  case. 

At  that  moment  Master  Gottlieb  was  engaged  in 
arranging  Cimarosa's  "  Matrimonio  Segreto  "  for  the 
Mannheim  theatre,  where  he  proposed  to  try  some 
Italian  music  as  an  experiment. 

A  bow  was  thrust  in  his  belt,  like  Harlequin's  club, 
or,  more  properly  speaking,  was  held  in  place  by  the 
buttoned  pocket  of  his  breeches.  A  pen  was  perched 
proudly  behind  his  ear,  and  his  fingers  were  smeared 
with  ink. 

14 


210   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

With  his  ink-smeared  fingers  he  took  the  letter 
Hoffmann  handed  hira,  and  said,  as  he  glanced  at  the 
address  and  recognized  the  handwriting,  — 

**  Ahl  Zacharias  Werner,  a  poet,  yes,  a  poet,  but  a 
gambler."  Then  he  added,  as  if  the  virtue  atoned 
somewhat  for  the  vice,  "  A  gambler,  a  gambler,  but  a 
poet." 

He  unsealed  the  letter. 

"  Gone,  has  he  not?  "  he  said.     "  Gone!  " 

"  He  is  starting  at  this  moment. " 

"God  guide  his  steps!"  said  Gottlieb,  raising  his 
eyes  to  heaven  as  if  to  commend  his  friend  to  God. 
"  But  he  has  done  well  to  go.  Travelling  forms  youth , 
and,  if  I  had  not  travelled,  I  should  not  know  the 
immortal  Paesiello,  the  divine  Cimarosa." 

"  But  you  would  know  their  works  just  as  well, 
Master  Gottlieb,"  said  Hoffmann. 

"  Yes,  their  works,  of  course ;  but  what  does  it  amount 
to,  to  know  the  work  without  knowing  the  artist?  It  is 
like  knowing  the  soul  without  the  body.  The  work  is 
the  ghost,  the  apparition.  The  work  is  what  remains 
of  us  after  our  death.  But  the  body,  you  see,  is  what 
has  lived.  You  will  never  thoroughly  comprehend  a 
man's  work  unless  you  have  known  the  man  himself." 

Hoffmann  nodded  his  head. 

"It  is  true,"  he  said.  "I  never  fully  appreciated 
Mozart  until  I  had  seen  him." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Gottlieb.  "Mozart  has  some  good 
points ;  but  why  has  he  those  good  points  1  Because  he 
travelled  in  Italy.  German  music,  young  man,  is  the 
music  of  men;  but  mark  this,  Italian  music  is  the 
music  of  the  gods." 

"  But  it  was  not  in  Italy,"  suggested  Hoffmann  with 
a  smile ,  "  it  was  not   in  Italy  that   Mozart  wrote  the 


MASTER  GOTTLIEB   MURE.  211 

*  Marriage  of  Figaro  '  and  *  Don  Juan,'  for  he  wrote  one 
in  Vienna  for  the  emperor  and  the  other  at  Prague  for 
the  Italian  theatre  there." 

"True,  young  man,  true,  and  I  like  to  find  in  you 
the  national  spirit  that  leads  you  to  stand  up  for 
Mozart.  Yes,  if  the  poor  devil  had  lived  and  had  taken 
one  or  two  more  journeys  to  Italy,  he  would  certainly 
have  heen  a  master,  a  very  great  master.  But,  take  this 
'  Don  Juan  '  that  you  speak  of,  and  this  *  Marriage  of 
Figaro,'  — for  what  did  he  compose  them?  For  Italian 
libretti,  Italian  words,  with  a  reflection  of  the  sunlight 
of  Bologna,  Rome,  or  Naples.  Believe  me,  young 
man,  one  must  have  seen  and  felt  that  sunlight  to 
appreciate  it  at  its  true  worth.  Look  you,  I  left  Italy 
four  years  ago.  For  four  years  I  have  shivered  except 
when  I  have  thought  of  Italy.  The  mere  thought  of  it 
warms  me.  I  need  no  cloak  when  I  think  of  Italy.  I 
need  no  coat,  I  need  no  cap  even.  The  memory  gives 
me  new  life.  0  music  of  Bologna!  0  sun  of  Naples! 
Oh!  —  " 

For  a  moment  the  old  man's  face  expressed  supreme 
beatitude,  and  his  whole  body  seemed  to  thrill  with 
indescribable  bliss,  as  if  the  hot  waves  of  the  southern 
sun  were  still  pouring  down  upon  his  bald  head,  thence 
to  his  shoulders,  and  from  his  shoulders  over  his  whole 
body. 

Hoffmann  was  careful  not  to  arouse  him  from  his 
trance,  but  availed  himself  of  the  opportunity  to  look 
about,  still  hoping  to  see  Antonia.  But  the  doors  were 
closed,  and  there  was  no  sound  behind  any  of  them  to 
indicate  the  presence  of  a  living  being. 

He  had  no  choice,  therefore,  but  to  return  to  Master 
Gottlieb,  whose  ecstasy  gradually  became  less  absorbing, 
until  he  finally  emerged  from  it  with  a  sort  of  shudder. 


212      THE   WOMAN   WITH  THE   VELVET   NECKLACE. 

"Brrrr!  you  were  saying,  young  man?  "  he  said. 

Hoffmann  started. 

"I  was  saying,  Master  Gottlieb,  that,  being  a  musi- 
cian, I  have  come  to  you  at  the  suggestion  of  my  friend 
Zacharias  Werner,  who  has  told  me  of  your  kindness  to 
young  men." 

"  Oho !  you  are  a  musician !  " 

And  Gottlieb  drew  himself  up,  raised  his  head,  threw 
it  back,  and  looked  at  Hoffmann  through  his  spectacles, 
which  at  that  moment  were  resting  on  the  extreme  end 
of  his  nose. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  muttered,  "a  musician's  head,  a 
musician's  brow,  a  musician's  eye.  What  are  you? 
composer  or  performer  1  " 

"Both,  Master  Gottlieb." 

"Both!  "  exclaimed  Master  Gottlieb.  "Both!  these 
young  people  aren't  afraid  of  anything!  It  requires 
the  whole  life  of  a  man,  yes,  of  two  men,  of  three  men, 
to  be  either,  and  they  are  both,  forsooth!  " 

He  threw  up  his  arms  and  whirled  around  as  if  he 
would  bore  a  hole  in  the  floor  with  his  corkscrew  of  a 
right  leg. 

Having  completed  his  pirouette,  he  came  to  a  stand- 
still in  front  of  Hoffmann. 

"Well,  presumptuous  youth,"  he  said,  "what  have 
you  done  in  the  way  of  composition  1  " 

"  Sonatas,  sacred  music,  quintettes." 

"  Sonatas,  after  Sebastian  Bach !  sacred  music,  after 
Pergolese!  quintettes,  after  Francis  Joseph  Haydn! 
Ah!  youth!  youth!  And  as  a  performer,"  he  added 
with  an  accent  of  profound  pity,  "  as  an  instrumentalist, 
what  instrument  do  you  play  1  " 

"Almost  all,  from  the  rebeck  to  the  harpsichord, 
from  the  viole  d^ amour  to  the  theorbum;  but  the  instru- 


MASTER  GOTTLIEB   MURE.  213 

ment  to   which   I  have   paid    most    attention    is    the 
violin." 

"Indeed,"  said  Master  Gottlieb  satirically,  "you 
have  really  done  the  violin  that  honor!  Upon  my 
word,  it  is  a  great  piece  of  good  fortune  for  the  poor 
violin!  Why,  you  wretched  boy  !  "  he  added,  hopping 
back  to  Hofimann  on  a  single  leg  to  go  the  faster,  "  do 
you  know  what  the  violin  is  1  The  violin !  "  and 
Master  Gottlieb  balanced  himself  on  the  one  leg  we 
have  mentioned,  the  other  remaining  in  the  air  like  a 
crane's;  "the  violin!  why,  it  is  the  most  difficult  of 
all  instruments.  The  violin  was  invented  by  Satan 
himself  for  the  damnation  of  mankind,  when  he  was  at 
the  end  of  his  inventions.  Satan  has  destroyed  more 
souls  with  the  violin  than  with  the  seven  capital  sins 
combined.  Only  the  immortal  Tartini  —  Tartini,  my 
master,  my  hero,  my  god!  — he  was  the  only  one  who 
ever  attained  perfection  on  the  violin.  But  he  alone 
knows  what  it  cost  him  in  this  world  and  the  other  to 
play  a  whole  night  with  the  devil's  own  violin  and 
keep  the  bow.  Oh!  the  violin!  Do  you  know,  sacri- 
legious youth,  that  that  instrument  conceals  beneath  its 
almost  pitiful  simplicity  the  most  inexhaustible  treasures 
of  harmony  that  it  is  possible  for  man  to  drink  from  the 
cup  of  the  gods?  Have  you  studied  the  frame,  the 
strings,  the  bow,  the  horsehair,  the  horsehair  above  all? 
Do  you  aspire  to  combine,  to  unite,  to  subdue  under 
your  fingers  all  the  parts  of  that  marvellous  whole, 
which  has  resisted  for  two  centuries  the  efibrts  of  the 
greatest  masters,  which  groans  and  laments  and  com- 
plains under  their  fingers,  and  has  never  sung  except 
under  the  fingers  of  the  immortal  Tartini,  my  master? 
When  you  took  up  a  violin  for  the  first  time,  did  you 
realize  what  you  were  doing,  young  man  ?     But  you  are 


214      THE   WOMAN  WITH  THE   VELVET   NECKLACE. 

not  the  first,"  added  Master  Gottlieb,  with  a  sigh 
drawn  from  the  inmost  recesses  of  his  being,  "  and  you 
will  not  be  the  last  to  be  undone  by  the  violin.  The 
violin,  everlasting  tempter  I  Others  besides  yourself 
have  believed  in  their  calling,  and  have  wasted  their 
lives  scraping  the  strings,  and  you  are  going  to  increase 
the  number  of  those  poor  wretches,  who  are  already  so 
numerous,  so  useless  to  society,  and  so  insufferable  to 
their  fellow-creatures." 

Suddenly,  without  any  transition,  he  seized  a  violin 
and  a  bow,  as  a  fencing-master  takes  a  pair  of  foils,  and 
handed  them  to  Hoffmann. 

"Come,"  he  said,  in  a  defiant  tone,  "play  me  some- 
thing. Play ,  and  I  will  tell  you  where  you  stand ;  and 
if  you  still  have  time  to  draw  back  from  the  precipice, 
I  will  rescue  you  as  I  rescued  poor  Zacharias  Werner. 
He  also  played  the  violin.  He  played  it  fiercely,  with 
frenzy.  He  dreamed  of  performing  miracles,  but  I 
opened  his  eyes.  He  broke  his  violin  into  small  pieces 
and  burned  them  up.  Then  I  put  a  bass-viol  in  his 
hands,  and  that  finished  calming  him  down.  There  was 
room  on  that  for  his  long,  thin  fingers.  At  first  he 
made  them  do  their  ten  leagues  an  hour,  and  now  he 
plays  the  bass-viol  well  enough  to  serenade  his  uncle  on 
his  birthday,  whereas  he  never  would  have  played  the 
violin  except  to  serenade  the  devil." 

Hoffmann  took  the  violin  and  looked  it  over. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Master  Gottlieb.  "You  look  to 
see  who  made  it,  as  the  gourmand  smells  of  the  wine 
before  drinking.  Pick  a  string,  just  one,  and  if  your 
ear  does  n't  tell  you  the  maker's  name  you  are  not 
worthy  to  touch  it." 

Hoffmann  picked  a  string,  which  gave  forth  a  pro- 
longed, shivering,  vibrating  note. 


MASTER   GOTTLIEB   MUER.  215 

"It 's  an  Antonio  Stradivarius. " 

"  Well,  well,  not  bad;  but  of  what  period  of  Stradi- 
varius' life?  Let  us  see  how  far  you  can  go.  He 
made  many  violins  between  1698  and  1728." 

"  Oh !  as  to  that,"  said  Hoflfmann,  "  I  confess  my 
ignorance,  and  it  seems  to  me  impossible  —  " 

"Impossible,  blasphemer!  impossible!  that's  as  if 
you  were  to  tell  me  that  it 's  impossible  to  tell  the  age 
of  wine  by  tasting  it.  Listen  to  me :  As  truly  as  this 
is  the  10th  day  of  May,  1793,  that  violin  was  made 
during  the  journey  of  the  immortal  Antonio  from 
Cremona  to  Mantua  in  1705,  when  he  left  his  workshop 
in  charge  of  his  first  assistant.  So  that  that  Stradiva- 
rius, I  am  happy  to  tell  you,  is  only  a  third-rate  instru- 
ment; but  I  greatly  fear  that  it  is  still  too  good  for  a 
poor  schoolboy  like  you.     Ha!  ha!  ha!" 

Hoffmann  put  the  violin  to  his  shoulder,  and,  not 
without  a  violent  pulsation  of  the  heart,  began  to  play 
variations  on  the  theme  from  "  Don  Juan,"  — 

"  La  ci  darem'  la  mano." 

Master  Gottlieb  stood  beside  him,  beating  time  with 
his  head  and  with  the  foot  at  the  end  of  his  crooked 
leg.  As  Hoffmann  played  on,  his  face  lighted  up,  his 
eyes  shone,  his  upper  teeth  gnawed  his  lower  lip,  and 
on  either  side  of  that  same  lip  protruded  a  tooth,  which 
under  ordinary  circumstances  it  was  intended  to  conceal , 
but  which  stood  out  at  that  moment  like  a  boar's  tusks. 
Finally,  an  allegro  movement,  over  which  Hoffmann 
achieved  a  signal  triumph,  extorted  from  Master  Gott- 
lieb a  nod  resembling  a  sign  of  approbation. 

Hoffmann  ended  with  a  flourish  which  he  thought 
extremely  brilliant,  but  which,  far  from  satisfying  the 
old  musician,  caused  him  to  make  a  wry  face. 


216      THE  WOMAN   WITH   THE   VELVET   NECKLACE. 

His  face  gradually  resumed  its  serenity,  however,  and 
lie  said,  bringing  his  hand  down  on  the  young  man's 
shoulder,  — 

"  Well,  well,  it 's  not  so  bad  as  I  supposed.  When 
you  have  forgotten  all  you  have  learned,  when  you  have 
ceased  to  indulge  in  those  fashionable  gymnastics,  when 
you  get  the  better  of  those  jerky  fits  and  those  shrieking 
flourishes,  something  can  be  done  with  you." 

Such  praise,  from  a  man  so  hard  to  please  as  the  old 
musician,  delighted  Hoffmann  beyond  measure.  Nor 
did  he  forget,  swimming  as  he  was  in  the  musical 
ocean,  that  Gottlieb  was  the  lovely  Antonia's   father. 

So,  taking  on  the  bound  the  words  the  old  man  let 
fall ,  he  asked ,  — 

"  Who  will  undertake  to  do  something  with  me  ? 
Will  you,  Master  Gottlieb?" 

"  Why  not,  young  man  1  Why  not,  if  you  are  wil- 
ling to  listen  to  old  Murr?  " 

"  I  will  listen  to  you,  master,  as  long  as  you  choose.** 

"  Ah  !  "  murmured  the  old  man  in  a  melancholy  tone, 
for  his  glance  wandered  back  into  the  past,  and  his 
memory  was  busy  with  bygone  days,  "I  have  known 
many  virtuosi!  I  knew  Corelli, — by  tradition,  it  is 
true.  He  it  was  who  opened  the  road,  who  hewed  out 
the  path.  One  must  either  play  as  Tartini  played  or  give 
up  playing.  He  was  the  first  to  divine  that  the  violin 
is  a  god,  or,  at  least,  a  temple  from  which  a  god  may 
emerge.  After  him  comes  Paganini,  a  fair,  intelligent 
violinist,  but  soft,  too  soft,  especially  in  certain 
appoggiamenti.  Then  Germiniani,  a  powerful  per- 
former, but  powerful  by  fits  and  starts,  without  transi- 
tion. I  went  to  Paris  expressly  to  see  him,  as  you 
propose  to  go  to  see  the  opera,  —  a  maniac,  my  friend, 
a  sleep-walker,  my  friend,  a  man  who  gesticulated  in 


MASTEE  GOTTLIEB  MURR.         217 

his  dreams,  quick  to  hear  the  tempo  ruhato,  fatal 
tempo  rubato,  which  kills  more  musicians  than  the 
smallpox,  the  yellow  fever,  or  the  plague!  Then  I 
played  my  sonatas  to  him  in  the  style  of  my  master,  the 
immortal  Tartini,  and  he  admitted  his  error.  Unfor- 
tunately the  pupil  was  huried  up  to  the  neck  in  his 
method.  He  was  seventy-one  years  old,  poor  child! 
Forty  years  earlier  I  would  have  saved  him,  like 
Giardini.  Him  I  took  in  time,  but  unfortunately  he 
was  incorrigible.  The  devil  himself  had  taken  posses- 
sion of  his  left  hand,  and  it  would  go  and  go  and  go  at 
such  a  rate  that  his  right  hand  could  not  follow  it. 
Such  fantasias  and  frills  and  flourishes !  They  were 
enough  to  give  a  Dutchman  Saint  Vitus'  dance.  And 
one  day,  when  he  was  spoiling  a  magnificent  passage  in 
Jomelli's  presence,  dear  Jomelli,  who  was  the  best 
fellow  in  the  world,  gave  him  such  a  smart  rap  that 
Giardini's  cheek  was  swollen  for  a  month,  and  Jomelli 
had  his  hand  in  bandages  for  three  weeks.  He  was  like 
Lulli,  a  madman,  a  downright  madman,  a  rope-dancer, 
a  performer  of  dangerous  leaps,  an  equilibrist  without  a 
balancing  rod,  who  should  be  given  a  balancing  rod 
instead  of  a  bow.  Alas !  alas  !  alas !  "  cried  the  old 
man  piteously.  "  With  a  feeling  of  profound  despair 
I  say  it,  but  with  Nardini  and  me  the  noble  art  of 
violin-playing  will  die  out;  the  art  by  which  our  com- 
mon master  Orpheus  attracted  animals,  moved  rocks,  and 
built  cities.  Instead  of  building  up,  like  the  divine 
violin,  we  demolish,  like  the  accursed  trumpets.  If 
the  French  ever  enter  Germany,  if  they  want  to  beat 
down  the  walls  of  Philippsburg,  which  they  have 
besieged  so  many  times,  they  will  only  have  to  allow 
four  violinists  of  my  acquaintance  to  give  a  concert 
before  the  gates." 


218   THE  "WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

The  old  man  paused  to  take  breath,  then  resumed  in 
a  milder  tone,  — 

"  I  know  that  there  is  Viotti,  one  of  my  own  pupils, 
a  boy  with  the  best  will  in  the  world,  but  impatient, 
impudent,  and  unmethodical.  As  for  Giarnowicki, 
he  's  an  ignorant  fool,  and  the  first  thing  I  told  my  old 
Lisbeth  was  to  close  my  door  in  hot  haste  if  she  ever 
heard  that  name  pronounced  outside  it.  Thirty  years 
Lisbeth  has  been  with  me,  but  I  tell  you,  young  man, 
I  shall  discharge  Lisbeth  if  she  ever  lets  Giarnowicki 
into  my  house,  — a  Sarmatian,  a  Welshman,  who  dared 
speak  ill  of  the  master  of  masters,  the  immortal  Tartini ! 
Oh!  I'll  give  lessons  and  advice  gratis  as  long  as  he 
wants  to  the  man  who  brings  me  Giarnowicki 's  head. 
As  for  you,  my  boy,"  continued  the  old  man,  returning 
to  Hoffmann,  "as  for  you,  you  are  not  very  strong  yet, 
it  is  true;  but  Rode  and  Kreutzer,  my  pupils,  were  no 
stronger  than  you;  and  I  was  saying  that  by  coming  to 
see  Master  Gottlieb,  in  applying  to  Master  Gottlieb,  in 
procuring  a  recommendation  to  him  from  a  man  who 
knows  and  appreciates  him,  that  madman,  Zacharias 
Werner,  you  prove  that  there  is  an  artist's  heart  in  that 
breast.  And  so,  young  man,  I  do  not  now  propose  to 
put  an  Antonio  Stradivarius  in  your  hands ;  nor  even  a 
Gramulo,  that  old  master  whom  the  immortal  Tartini 
esteemed  so  highly  that  he  never  played  except  upon 
Gramulos.  No,  but  an  Antonio  Amati,  the  grand- 
father, the  ancestor,  the  original  parent  stock  of  all  the 
violins  that  have  ever  been  made,  —  that  instrument, 
which  will  be  my  Antonia's  marriage  portion,  is  the 
one  upon  which  I  wish  now  to  hear  you  play.  It  is 
Ulysses'  bow,  you  see,  and  whoever  can  bend  Ulysses' 
bow  is  worthy  of  Penelope. " 

Thereupon  the  old  man  opened  a  velvet  case    lined 


MASTER   GOTTLIEB   l4URR.  219 

with  rich  gold  lace,  and  took  from  it  such  a  violin  as, 
it  seemed,  could  never  have  existed  before,  and  such  as 
Hojffmann  alone  perhaps  could  remember  having  seen  in 
the  imaginary  concerts  given  by  his  great-uncles  and 
great-aunts. 

He  bent  over  the  venerable  instrument  and  said,  as 
he  handed  it  to  Hoffmann,  — 

"  Take  it,  and  try  not  to  be  too  unworthy  of  it." 

Hoffmann  bowed,  took  the  instrument  with  respect, 
and  began  an  old  etude  by  Sebastian  Bach. 

"Bach,  Bach,"  muttered  Gottlieb.  "He  is  well 
enough  for  the  organ,  but  he  knew  nothing  about  the 
violin.     No  matter." 

At  the  first  note  Hoffmann  drew  from  the  instrument, 
he  started,  for  he  was  enough  of  a  musician  to  realize 
what  a  treasure-house  of  melody  had  been  placed  in  his 
hands. 

The  bow  was  so  curved  that  it  enabled  the  player  to 
touch  all  four  strings  at  once,  and  the  last  string  soared 
aloft  to  celestial  notes  of  such  marvellous  beauty  as 
Hoffmann  had  never  dreamed  could  be  produced  by  the 
hand  of  man. 

Meanwhile  the  old  man  stood  near  him,  with  his 
head  thrown  back,  blinking  his  eyes,  and  saying,  by 
way  of  encouragement,  — 

"Not  bad,  not  bad,  young  man;  the  right  hand,  the 
right  hand  !  The  left  hand  is  only  the  movement;  the 
right  hand  is  the  soul.     Come,  soul!  soul !  !  soul!!!  ** 

Hoffmann  felt  that  old  Gottlieb  was  right,  and  he 
realized  the  truth  of  what  he  told  him  at  first,  that  he 
would  have  to  unlearn  all  that  he  had  learned;  and,  by 
an  insensible  but  constant  transition,  he  passed  from 
pianissimo  to  fortissimo ,  ivom.  caresses  to  threats,  from 
the  lightning  flash  to  the  thunderbolt   and  lost  himself 


220   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

in  a  torrent  of  melody  which  rose  like  a  cloud  and  fell 
in  rippling  cascades,  in  liquid  pearls,  in  damp  spray; 
and  he  was  under  the  influence  of  a  new  mental  condi- 
tion, of  a  state  bordering  on  ecstasy,  when  suddenly 
his  left  hand  relaxed  its  hold  on  the  strings,  the  bow 
stood  still  in  his  right  hand,  the  violin  slipped  from 
his  shoulder,  his  eyes  became  fixed  upon  a  certain  point 
and  glowed  like  live  coals. 

The  door  had  opened,  and  Hoffmann,  looking  in  the 
mirror  in  front  of  which  he  was  playing,  saw  the  fair 
Antonia  appear  in  the  doorway  like  a  phantom  evoked 
by  a  divine  melody,  her  mouth  partly  open,  her  breast 
heaving,  her  eyes  moist. 

Hoflfmann  uttered  an  exclamation  of  pleasure,  and 
Master  Gottlieb  had  barely  time  to  save  the  venerable 
Antonio  Amati  as  it  dropped  from  the  young  violinist's 
hand. 


ANTONIA.  221 

V. 

ANTONIA. 

Antonia  appeared  a  thousand  times  more  beautiful  to 
Hoflfmann  when  she  opened  the  door  and  crossed  the 
threshold,  than  when  he  saw  her  descending  the  church 
steps. 

It  was  because  he  was  able  to  grasp  at  a  single  glance, 
in  the  mirror  in  which  the  young  girl's  image  was  re- 
flected, and  which  was  within  two  steps,  all  the  points  of 
beauty  which  had  escaped  him  at  a  distance. 

Antonia  was  barely  seventeen  years  old.  She  was  of 
medium  height,  rather  tall  than  short,  but  so  slender 
without  being  thin,  so  willowy  without  being  weakly 
built,  that  all  the  timeworn  comparisons  to  a  lily  sway- 
ing on  its  stalk,  to  a  palm-tree  bending  in  the  wind, 
would  have  failed  to  do  justice  to  the  Italian  tnorhidezza, 
the  only  word  that  expresses  the  idea  of  gentle  languor 
which  the  sight  of  her  aroused.  Her  mother  was,  like 
Juliet,  one  of  the  loveliest  flowers  of  the  springtime  of 
Verona,  and  in  Antonia  were  found,  not  blended,  but 
side  by  side,  —  and  it  was  in  that  that  the  girl's  charm 
consisted, — the  beauties  of  the  two  races  which  dispute 
for  the  palm  of  beauty.  Thus,  with  the  fine  texture  of 
skin,  characteristic  of  the  women  of  the  North,  she  had 
the  dead  white  color  of  the  women  of  the  South;  thus 
her  fine,  thick  flaxen  hair,  flying  about  in  the  slightest 
breeze  like  a  golden  vapor,  shaded  eyes  and  eyebrows  of 
a  velvety  black.  Strangely  enough,  the  harmonious  com- 
mingling of  the  two  races  was  especially  noticeable  in  her 


222   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

voice.  So,  when  Antonia  spoke  German,  the  soft  ac- 
cents of  the  beautiful  language  in  which,  as  Dante  says, 
the  si  plays  so  prominent  a  part,  softened  the  harshness 
of  the  Germanic  accent,  whereas,  on  the  other  hand, 
when  she  spoke  Italian,  the  somewhat  too  flexible  tongue 
of  Metastasio  and  Goldoni  assumed  a  firmness  imparted 
to  it  by  the  virile  strength  of  the  tongue  of  Schiller  and 
Goethe. 

Nor  was  this  fusion  to  be  remarked  on  the  physical 
side  only.  Antonia  was  mentally  a  marvellous  and  rare 
example  of  what  the  sun  of  Italy  and  the  fogs  of  Ger- 
many can  perform  in  the  way  of  combining  widely  con- 
trasted forms  of  poesy.  You  would  have  said  that  she 
was  at  once  a  muse  and  a  fairy,  the  Beatrice  of  the 
"  Divina  Commedia  "  and  the  Lorelei  of  the  ballad. 

The  fact  was  that  Antonia,  the  artiste  par  excellence, 
was  the  daughter  of  a  great  artiste.  Her  mother,  who 
had  been  brought  up  in  the  Italian  school,  fought  a  hand 
to  hand  fight  one  day  with  German  music.  The  score  of 
Gluck's  "  Alcestis  "  had  fallen  into  her  hands,  and  she 
induced  her  husband.  Master  Gottlieb,  to  translate  the 
poem  into  Italian.  When  it  was  translated,  she  sang  it  at 
Vienna ;  but  she  presumed  too  much  upon  her  strength, 
or  rather,  wonderful  songstress  that  she  was,  she  did  not 
know  the  measure  of  her  own  sensitiveness.  At  the 
third  performance  of  the  opera,  —  which  had  achieved  the 
greatest  success, — in  Alcestis'  beautiful  solo, — 

"  Divinities  of  Styx,  ye  ministers  of  death, 
I  '11  not  invoke  yoiu*  cruel  sympathy. 
I  rescue  a  fond  husband  from  his  mournful  fate. 
But  I  abandon  to  you  a  true,  faithful  wife,"  — 

when  she  reached  the  D,  which  she  gave  with  the  full 
strength  of  her  lungs,   slie  turned  pale,   staggered  and 


ANTONIA.  223 

fainted:  a  blood-vessel  had  burst  in  that  swelling  chest; 
the  sacrifice  to  the  infernal  gods  was  consummated  in 
reality;  Antonia's  mother  was  dead. 

Poor  Master  Gottlieb  was  leading  the  orchestra.  From 
his  desk  he  saw  her  whom  he  loved  above  all  things  turn 
pale,  stagger  and  fall ;  more  than  that,  he  heard  the  chord 
break  upon  which  her  life  depended,  and  he  uttered  a 
terrible  shriek  which  mingled  with  the  last  breath  of  the 
dying  artiste. 

Therein,  perhaps,  lay  the  secret  of  Master  Gottlieb's 
hatred  for  the  German  masters.  It  was  Gluck  who,  inno- 
cently to  be  sure,  had  caused  the  death  of  his  Teresa; 
but  he  hated  Gluck  none  the  less  with  a  deadly  hatred, 
because  of  the  profound  grief  he  had  suffered ,  which  had 
not  been  allayed  until  he  began  to  transfer  to  Antonia  as 
she  grew  to  girlhood  all  the  love  he  had  had  for  her 
mother. 

At  seventeen,  the  age  at  which  she  had  now  arrived, 
the  girl  had  taken  the  place  of  everything  else  in  the  old 
man's  life;  he  lived  and  breathed  in  Antonia.  The 
thought  of  her  death  had  never  presented  itself  to  his 
mind;  but,  even  if  it  had  so  presented  itself,  he  would 
not  have  been  seriously  disturbed,  because  it  would  never 
have  occurred  to  him  that  he  could  survive  Antonia. 

And  so  the  appearance  of  Antonia  at  the  door  of  his 
study  was  welcomed  by  him  no  less  enthusiastically  than 
by  Hoffmann,  although  the  father's  feeling  was  very  dif- 
ferent in  kind. 

The  girl  came  forward  slowly ;  her  eyes  were  bright 
with  tears.  She  walked  up  to  Hoffmann,  put  out  her 
hand,  and  said,  with  modest  familiarity,  as  if  she  had 
known  the  young  man  ten  years, — 

"  Good  morning,  brother. " 

Master  Gottlieb  had  remained  silent  and  motionless 


224   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

from  the  moment  his  daughter  appeared.  His  heart,  as 
was  always  the  case,  had  left  his  hody,  and  was  fluttering 
about  her,  singing  in  her  ears  all  the  melodies  of  love  and 
joy  that  a  father's  heart  can  sing  at  sight  of  his  beloved 
daughter. 

He  had  placed  his  cherished  Antonio  Amati  on  the 
table,  and,  clasping  his  hands  as  he  would  have  done  be- 
fore the  Virgin,  he  watched  his  child  approach. 

As  to  Hoffmann,  he  did  not  know  whether  he  was 
asleep  or  awake,  whether  he  was  in  heaven  or  on  earth, 
whether  it  was  a  woman  or  an  angel  coming  to  him. 

So  it  was  that  he  almost  recoiled  when  Antonia  drew 
near  and  offered  him  her  hand,  calling  him  her  brother. 

"  You,  my  sister !  "  he  said,  in  a  stifled  voice. 

"  Yes, "  said  Antonia.  "  It  is  not  blood  that  makes 
the  family,  but  the  mind.  All  flowers  are  sisters  by 
their  perfume,  all  artists  are  brothers  by  their  art.  I 
have  never  seen  you,  it  is  true,  but  I  know  you ;  your 
bow  has  told  me  the  story  of  your  life.  You  are  a  poet, 
a  little  mad,  my  poor  friend !  Alas !  it  is  the  glowing 
spark  that  God  confines  in  our  heads  or  in  our  hearts 
that  consumes  our  brains  or  our  hearts." 

Then  she  turned  to  Master  Gottlieb. 

"  Good  morning,  father, "  she  said,  "  why  have  you  not 
kissed  your  Antonia  1  Ah  !  I  understand :  *  II  Matri- 
monio  Segreto,'  *  Stabat  Mater, '  Cimarosa,  Pergolese,  Por- 
pora.  What  is  Antonia  beside  those  great  geniuses?  a 
poor  child  who  loves  you,  but  whom  you  forget  for 
them." 

"  I  forget  you !  "  cried  Gottlieb,  "  old  Murr  forget 
Antonia !  The  father  forget  his  daughter  !  For  what  1 
for  a  parcel  of  wretched  notes,  for  a  collection  of  semi- 
breves  and  quavers,  of  white  notes  and  black  notes,  of 
flats  and  sharps !     Oh,  yes  I  see  how  I  forget  you !  " 


ANTONIA.  225 

He  whirled  about  on  his  crooked  leg  with  astounding 
agiHty,  and  with  his  other  leg  and  both  hands  sent  flying 
about  the  room  the  difi"erent  parts  of  the  score  of  "  II 
Matrimonio  Segreto, "  which  were  all  ready  to  be  distri- 
buted to  the  members  of  the  orchestra. 

"Father!  father!"  said  Antonia. 

"  Fire  !  fire !  "  cried  Master  Gottlieb,  "  give  me  fire  that 
I  may  burn  them  all :  Pergolese,  Cimarosa,  Paesiello,  my 
Stradivariuses,  my  Gramulos,  and  my  Antonio  Amati! 
Has  not  my  child,  my  Antonia,  said  that  I  love  chords, 
wood,  and  paper  better  than  my  own  flesh  and  blood? 
Fire!  fire!!  fire!!!" 

The  old  man  ran  about  like  a  madman,  hopped  on  his 
crooked  leg  like  the  Lame  Devil,  and  waved  his  arms  like 
a  windmill. 

Antonia  watched  the  old  man's  frenzy  with  the  sweet 
smile  of  satisfied  filial  pride.  She  knew  well  —  she  who 
had  never  played  the  flirt  with  any  man  but  her  father  — 
that  her  power  over  the  old  man  was  without  bounds, 
that  his  heart  was  a  kingdom  in  which  she  reigned  an 
absolute  sovereign.  So  she  stopped  him  in  the  midst  of 
his  evolutions,  and,  drawing  him  toward  her,  deposited  a 
simple  kiss  on  his  forehead. 

The  old  man  uttered  a  cry  of  joy,  took  his  daughter  in 
his  arms,  lifted  her  up  as  if  she  were  a  bird,  and  after 
twisting  around  on  his  leg  three  or  four  times,  sank  at 
last  upon  a  capacious  couch,  where  he  began  to  rock  her 
>vs  a  mother  rocks  her  child. 

At  first  Hofi"man  had  gazed  at  Master  Gottlieb  in  dis- 
may ;  when  he  saw  him  scatter  the  sheets  of  music  about,  he 
believed  that  he  was  a  raving  maniac.  But  he  was  speed- 
ily reassured  by  Antonia's  tranquil  smile,  and  he  respect- 
fully collected  the  scattered  sheets  and  placed  them  on 
the  tables  and  stands,  glancing  out  of  the  corner  of  his 

15 


226      THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   VELVET  NECKLACE. 

eye  all  the  while  at  the  strange  group,  in  which  even  the 
old  man  made  a  poetic  figure. 

Suddenly  something  soft,  sweet,  ethereal  passed 
through  the  air,  a  breath  of  vapor,  a  melody,  yes,  some- 
thing even  more  divine :  it  was  Antonia's  voice  attack- 
ing, in  obedience  to  her  artistic  caprice,  that  wonderful 
composition  of  Stradella's  which  saved  its  author's  life, 
the  Pieta,  Signore. 

At  the  first  vibration  of  that  angelic  voice,  Hofi'mann 
stood  as  if  turned  to  stone,  while  old  Gottlieb,  gently 
lifting  his  daughter  from  his  knees,  deposited  her,  recum- 
bent as  she  was,  upon  the  couch;  then,  running  to  his 
Antonio  Amati,  he  began  to  accompany  her,  producing 
with  his  bow  an  undercurrent  of  harmony,  and  support- 
ing Antonia's  song  as  the  angel  supports  the  soul  he 
carries  up  to  heaven. 

Antonia's  voice  was  a  soprano,  possessing  the  greatest 
range  that  the  divine  lavishness  can  bestow,  not  upon  a 
woman's  but  upon  an  angel's  voice.  Antonia's  range 
was  five  octaves  and  a  half;  she  could  sing  with  equal 
facility  high  C,  that  divine  note  which  seems  adapted  to 
none  but  celestial  concerts,  and  the  C  of  the  fifth  octave 
of  low  notes.  Hofi'mann  had  never  heard  anything  of 
such  velvet-like  softness  as  the  first  four  measures,  sung 
without  accompaniment,  Pieta,  Signore,  di  me  dolente. 
That  aspiration  of  the  suffering  soul  Godward,  that  fer- 
vent prayer  to  the  Lord  to  take  pity  on  the  suffering 
that  found  voice  to  lament,  assumed  in  Antonia's  mouth 
an  accent  of  divine  respect  that  resembled  terror.  The 
accompaniment  too,  which  had  taken  up  the  phrase  as  it 
floated  between  heaven  and  earth,  which  had,  so  to 
speak,  caught  it  in  its  arms  after  the  la  had  died  away, 
and  which  repeated  the  lament  piano,  piano,  like  an 
echo,  —  the  accompaniment  was  in  every  way  worthy  of 


ANTONIA.  227 

the  heart-broken  voice,  and  as  sorrowful.  It  said,  not  in 
Italian,  not  in  German,  not  in  French,  but  in  the  uni- 
versal tongue  called  music :  — 

"  Have  pity,  0  Lord,  have  pity  on  me,  miserable 
creatiire  that  I  am !  Have  pity,  0  Lord,  and  if  my  prayer 
reaches  Thine  ear,  may  Thy  rigor  be  disarmed  and  may 
Thy  glance  be  less  stern  and  more  merciful  as  it  is 
turned  upon  me!  " 

And  nevertheless,  while  following,  while  forming  a 
frame,  as  it  were,  for  the  voice,  the  accompaniment  left  it 
all  its  liberty,  all  its  fulness.  It  was  a  caress,  not  an 
embrace,  a  support  and  not  an  embarrassment;  and 
when,  at  the  first  sforzando,  when  the  voice  rose  to  the 
re  and  the  two  fas  as  if  to  try  to  ascend  to  heaven, 
then  the  accompaniment  seemed  to  fear  burdening  it  as 
an  earthly  thing,  and  almost  abandoned  it  to  the  wings  of 
faith,  only  coming  to  its  support  on  the  mi  sharp,  that  is 
to  say,  on  the  diminuendo,  when,  wearied  by  its  effort, 
the  voice  fell  back  as  if  exhausted,  like  Canova's 
Madonna,  on  her  knees,  sitting  upon  her  knees,  in  whom 
everything  seems  to  bend,  soul  and  body  alike,  crushed 
beneath  the  terrible  fear  that  the  Creator's  pity  will  not 
be  sufficiently  great  to  forget  the  fault  of  His  creature. 

And  when,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  she  continued: 
"  May  I  never  be  damned  and  hurled  into  the  everlasting 
fire  of  Thy  rigor,  0  Almighty  God  !  "  then  the  accom- 
paniment ventured  to  mingle  with  the  trembling  voice 
which,  seeing  the  ever  burning  flames  from  afar,  besought 
the  Lord  to  turn  them  aside.  Thereupon,  the  accom- 
paniment in  its  turn  prayed,  implored,  groaned,  ascended 
with  the  voice  to  the  fa,  descended  with  it  to  the  do, 
accompanying  it  in  its  weakness,  sustaining  it  in  its 
terror;  and  then,  when  the  voice,  gasping  and  nerveless, 
died  in  Antonia's  chest,  the  accompaniment   continued 


228   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

alone,  as  the  prayers  of  the  survivors,  plaintive  and  mur- 
muring,  continue  after  the  soul  has  flown  and  is  already 
on  the  way  to  heaven. 

At  that  moment  the  supplicating  tones  of  Master  Gott- 
lieb's violin  were  reenforced  by  an  unexpected  burst  of 
melody,  at  once  sweet  and  powerful,  almost  divine. 
Antonia  raised  herself  upon  her  elbow ;  Master  Gottlieb 
turned  half  round  and  stood  with  his  bow  suspended  over 
the  strings  of  his  violin.  Hoffmann,  who  was  at  first 
dazed,  intoxicated,  delirious  with  joy,  had  realized  that 
that  sorrowing  heart  needed  a  little  hope,  and  that  it 
would  break  if  a  divine  ray  did  not  afford  it  a  glimpse  of 
heaven,  and  he  had  rushed  to  an  organ  and  spread  his 
ten  fingers  over  the  shuddering  keys,  and  the  organ, 
heaving  a  deep  sigh,  had  mingled  its  notes  with  Gott- 
lieb's violin  and  Antonia's  voice. 

A  marvellous  thing  was  the  repetition  of  the  Pieta, 
Signore  motif,  accompanied  by  that  voice  of  hope,  and 
not  pursued  by  terror  as  in  the  first  part ;  and  when,  with 
full  faith  in  her  genius  as  in  her  prayer,  Antonia  attacked 
the  fa  of  the  volgi  with  the  Avhole  power  of  her  voice,  a 
shudder  ran  through  old  Gottlieb's  veins,  and  a  cry  es- 
caped from  Hoffmann's  lips,  as,  drowning  the  Antonio 
Amati  beneath  the  torrents  of  melody  poured  forth  by 
the  organ,  he  continued  Antonia's  voice  after  it  had  died 
away,  and  upon  the  wings,  no  longer  of  an  angel,  but  of 
a  tempest,  seemed  to  carry  that  soul's  last  sigh  to  the 
feet  of  the  Almighty  and  All-Merciful  God. 

Then  there  was  a  moment's  silence ;  the  three  looked 
at  one  another,  and  their  hands  met  in  a  fraternal  grasp 
as  their  souls  had  met  in  a  common  harmony. 

And  from  that  moment,  not  only  did  Antonia  call 
Hoffmann  her  brother,  but  old  Gottlieb  Murr  called  him 
his  son. 


THE  OATH.  229 


VI. 


THE  OATH. 


Perhaps  the  reader  will  ask  himself,  or  rather  will  ask 
us,  how  it  happened  that,  Antonia's  mother  having  died 
because  of  her  singing,  Master  Gottlieb  Murr  permitted 
his  daughter,  that  heart  of  his  heart,  to  run  the  risk  of  a 
danger  similar  to  that  to  which  her  mother  had  succumbed. 

And  in  the  beginning,  when  he  heard  Antonia  try  her 
first  song,  the  poor  father  had  trembled  like  the  leaf  upon 
which  a  bird  perches  while  he  sings.  But  Antonia  was  a 
veritable  bird,  and  the  old  musician  soon  discovered  that 
song  was  her  natural  language.  And  God,  by  bestowing 
upon  her  a  voice  of  such  range  that  it  had  not  perhaps  its 
equal  in  the  world,  had  signified  that  Master  Gottlieb  had 
nothing  to  fear  in  that  direction  at  all  events;  indeed, 
when  that  natural  gift  of  song  was  reenforced  by  musical 
study,  when  the  most  complicated  difficulties  of  the  scale 
had  been  placed  before  the  girl  and  overcome  instantly 
with  wonderful  facility,  without  distortion  of  the  features, 
without  effort,  without  causing  a  single  chord  to  show  in 
her  neck,  without  so  much  as  a  contraction  of  the  eyes, 
he  realized  the  perfection  of  the  instrument ;  and  as  An- 
tonia, even  when  singing  pieces  written  for  the  highest 
voices,  was  never  required  to  do  her  best,  he  was  con- 
vinced that  there  was  no  danger  in  allowing  the  sweet- 
voiced  nightingale  to  follow  the  bent  of  her  melodious 
calling. 

But  Master  Gottlieb  had  forgotten  that  the  musical 
chord  is  not  the  only  one  that  resounds  in  a  maiden's 


230      THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

heart,  and  that  there  is  another  one  much  more  fragile, 
more  easily  played  upon,  and  more  deadly, —  the  chord 
of  love! 

That  chord  waked  in  the  poor  child's  heart  at  the  first 
note  produced  hy  Hoflfmann's  bow.  Bending  over  her 
embroidery  in  the  room  adjoining  that  in  which  the  young 
and  the  old  man  were,  she  had  raised  her  head  at  the  first 
shuddering  sound  that  passed  through  the  air.  She  had 
listened ;  then  little  by  little  a  strange  sensation  had  crept 
into  her  heart,  had  glided  through  her  veins  in  unfamiliar 
thrills.  She  had  risen  slowly  to  her  feet,  resting  one 
hand  on  her  chair,  while  the  other  dropped  the  embroid- 
ery from  its  open  fingers.  She  had  stood  for  an  instant 
without  moving ;  then  she  had  walked  slowly  toward  the 
door  and  had  appeared,  as  we  have  said,  the  shadow  of 
material  life,  a  poetic  vision,  at  the  door  of  Master  Gott- 
lieb's study. 

We  have  seen  how  music  had  blended  those  three  souls 
into  a  single  one  in  its  white-hot  crucible,  and  how,  at 
the  end  of  the  concert,  Hoffmann  had  become  as  one  of 
the  family. 

It  was  the  hour  at  which  old  Gottlieb  was  accustomed 
to  dine.  He  invited  Hoffmann  to  dine  with  him,  and 
the  invitation  was  accepted  with  the  same  cordiality  with 
which  it  was  given. 

Thereupon  for  a  few  moments  the  lovely  and  poetic 
virgin  of  the  divine  aria  was  transformed  into  an  excel- 
lent housekeeper.  Antonia  poured  tea  like  Clarissa  Har- 
low e,  spread  the  butter  on  slices  of  bread  like  Charlotte, 
and  ended  by  taking  her  seat  at  the  table  and  eating  like 
an  ordinary  mortal. 

The  Germans  do  not  understand  poetry  as  we  do. 
According  to  the  theory  of  our  self-conscious  society,  the 
woman  who  eats  and  drinks  loses  the  poetic  glamor.     If 


THE   OATH.  231 

a  young  and  pretty  woman  sits  at  the  table,  it  is  only  to 
preside  over  the  repast;  if  she  has  a  glass  in  front  of  her, 
it  is  to  put  her  gloves  in,  unless,  indeed,  she  keeps  her 
gloves  on  her  hands;  if  she  has  a  plate,  it  is  to  hold  a 
bunch  of  grapes,  of  which  the  immaterial  creature  conde- 
scends to  suck  a  few  of  the  finest  at  the  close  of  the  feast, 
as  a  bee  sucks  a  flower. 

The  reader  will  understand  that,  after  the  welcome 
Hoffmann  had  received  at  Master  Gottlieb's,  he  went 
again  the  next  day  and  the  next  and  every  day  thereafter. 
As  far  as  Master  Gottlieb  was  concerned,  the  frequency 
of  Hoffmann's  visits  did  not  seem  to  disturb  him.  An- 
tonia  was  too  pure,  too  chaste,  she  trusted  her  father  too 
fully,  for  the  old  man  to  harbor  a  suspicion  that  she 
could  commit  a  sin.  His  daughter  was  to  him  as  Saint 
Cecilia,  the  Virgin  Mary,  an  angel  from  heaven;  the 
divine  essence  in  her  was  so  pre-eminent  over  earthly 
substance,  that  the  old  man  had  never  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  tell  her  that  there  is  more  danger  in  the  contact 
of  two  bodies  than  in  the  union  of  two  souls. 

So  Hoffmann  was  happy,  as  happy,  that  is  to  say,  as 
it  is  given  to  a  mortal  creature  to  be.  The  sun  of  joy 
never  illumines  every  corner  of  a  man's  heart ;  there  is 
always,  at  some  point  or  other,  a  dark  spot  that  reminds 
man  that  absolute  happiness  does  not  exist  in  this  world, 
but  only  in  heaven. 

But  Hoffmann  had  one  advantage  over  the  great  ma- 
jority of  his  kind.  It  often  happens  that  a  man  cannot 
define  the  cause  of  the  sorrow  that  assails  him  in  the 
midst  of  his  happiness,  the  shadow  that  falls,  dark  and 
ominous,  upon  his  radiant  felicity. 

Now  Hoffmann  knew  what  it  was  that  marred  his 
happiness. 

It  was  the  promise  he  had  made  Zacharias  Werner  to 


233   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

join  him  in  Paris ;  it  was  that  strange  longing  to  visit 
France,  which  vanished  as  soon  as  Hoffmann  was  in 
Antonia's  presence,  but  Trained  the  upper  hand  as 
soon  as  he  was  alone;  more  than  that,  as  time  passed 
and  Zacharias'  letters,  reminding  his  friend  of  his 
promise,  became  more  urgent,  Hoffmann  became  more 
melancholy. 

At  last  the  young  girl's  presence  was  no  longer  sufR 
cient  to  drive  away  the  phantom  that  haunted  Hoffmann 
thenceforth,  even  when  he  was  at  Antonia's  side.  Often, 
when  he  was  with  her,  he  fell  into  a  deep  reverie.  Of 
what  was  he  dreaming?  of  Zacharias  Werner,  whose 
voice  he  seemed  to  hear.  Often  his  eye,  after  wandering 
vaguely  about,  seemed  to  rest  upon  a  certain  point  on  the 
horizon.  What  did  that  eye  see,  or  rather,  what  did  it 
fancy  that  it  saw  1  The  road  to  Paris,  and  at  one  of  the 
turns  in  the  road  Zacharias  walking  before  him  and  mo- 
tioning to  him  to  follow. 

Gradually,  the  phantom  that  had  at  first  appeared  to 
Hoffmann  at  rare  and  unequal  intervals,  returned  with 
more  regularity,  and  at  last  haunted  him  from  morning 
till  night. 

Hoffmann  fell  deeper  and  deeper  in  love  with  Antonia. 
He  felt  that  Antonia  was  necessary  to  his  life,  that  she 
Avas  his  only  hope  of  future  happiness ;  but  he  felt,  too, 
that  before  entering  upon  that  happiness,  and  to  make 
sure  that  it  would  be  enduring,  he  must  carry  out  the 
pilgrimage  he  had  planned;  for  otherwise  the  desire 
confined  in  his  heart,  strange  as  it  might  appear,  would 
gnaw  constantly  at  it. 

One  day,  as  he  sat  beside  Antonia  while  Master  Gott- 
lieb in  his  cabinet  was  copying  the  score  of  Pergolese's 
"  Stabat,"  which  he  proposed  to  perform  at  the  Frankfort 
Philharmonic  Society,  Hoffmann  fell  into  one  of  his  cus- 


THE   OATH.  233 

tomary  fits  of  musing.  Antonia,  after  watching  him  for 
a  long  while,  took  hoth  his  hands  in  hers. 

"  You  must  go  there,  my  friend, "  she  said. 

Hoffmann  stared  at  her  in  amazement. 

"  Go  there?  "he  repeated;  "  where,  pray  ?  " 

"  To  France,  to  Paris." 

"  Who  told  you,  Antonia,  of  that  secret  thought  of  my 
heart,  which  I  dare  not  confess  to  myself  ? " 

"  I  might  claim  to  possess  the  power  of  a  fairy,  Theo- 
dor,  and  say  to  you,  '  I  have  read  your  thoughts,  I  have 
read  your  eyes,  I  have  read  your  heart ; '  but  I  should 
say  what  is  not  true.     No,  I  remember,  that  is  all." 

"  And  what  do  you  remember,  my  beloved  Antonia  ?  " 

"  I  remember  that  on  the  day  before  you  first  came 
here,  Zacharias  Werner  came  and  told  us  of  your  pro- 
jected journey,  your  ardent  desire  to  see  Paris;  a  desire 
cherished  for  more  than  a  year,  and  on  the  point  of  being 
gratified.  Since  then  you  have  told  me  what  prevented 
yoii  from  going.  You  have  told  me  that,  on  seeing  me 
for  the  first  time,  you  w-.re  seized  by  t])at  irresistible 
feeling  by  which  I  was  myself  seized  when  I  listened  to 
your  playing,  and  now  it  only  remains  for  you  to  tell  me 
this :  that  you  still  love  me  as  dearly. " 

Hoffmann  made  a  gesture. 

"  Do  not  take  the  trouble  to  tell  me, "  continued  An- 
tonia ;  "  I  know  that  you  do ;  but  there  is  something 
even  stronger  than  your  love,  and  that  is  your  longing  to 
go  to  Prance,  to  join  Zacharias,  to  see  Paris,  in  fact." 

"  Antonia  ! "  cried  Hoffmann,  "  all  that  you  say  is 
true,  with  the  exception  of  one  point  :  that  is,  that  there 
is  anything  on  earth  stronger  than  my  love!  No,  An- 
tonia, I  swear  to  you  that  that  longing  —  a  strange  long- 
ing which  I  do  not  understand  —  I  should  have  buried 
in  my  heart  if  you  had  not  drawn  it  forth  yourself.    You 


234      THE    WOMAN   WITH   THE   VELVET  NECKLACE. 

are  not  mistaken,  Antonia  !  There  is  a  voice  that  sum 
mons  me  to  Paris,  a  voice  stronger  than  my  will,  and  yet, 
I  say  again,  I  should  not  have  heeded  it, —  that  voice  is 
the  voice  of  destiny  !  " 

"  Very  well,  let  us  fulfil  our  destiny,  my  friend.  You 
shall  go  to-morrow.     How  much  time  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  A  month,  Antonia;  in  a  month  I  shall  return." 

"  A  month  will  not  be  enough  for  you,  Theodor ;  in  a 
month  you  will  have  seen  nothing.  I  give  you  two 
months;  I  give  you  three  months;  I  give  you  all  the 
time  you  want,  in  short;  but  I  demand  one  thing,  or 
rather,  two  things  of  you." 

"  What  are  they,  dear  Antonia  ?  What  are  they  ?  tell 
me  quickly." 

"  To-morrow  will  be  Sunday,  the  day  when  high  mass 
is  celebrated.  Look  out  of  your  window  as  you  did  on 
the  day  that  Zacharias  Werner  went  away,  and  you 
will  see  me  go  up  the  church  steps  as  on  that  day,  my 
dear,  only  more  sad  than  then.  Come  and  join  me  in  my 
usual  place ;  come  and  sit  beside  me,  and  at  the  moment 
when  the  priest  blesses  our  Lord's  blood,  you  must  take 
two  oaths,  —  one,  to  remain  true  to  me;  the  other,  not 
to  gamble  any  more." 

"  Oh !  whatever  you  wish,  on  the  spot,  dear  Antonia ; 
I  swear  —  " 

"Nay,  Theodor,  you  shall  swear  to-morrow." 

"  Antonia,  Antonia,  you  are  an  angel !  " 

"  As  we  are  about  to  part,  Theodor,  have  you  not 
something  to  say  to  my  father  1  " 

"  Yes,  you  are  right.  But  I  confess,  Antonia,  that  I 
hesitate,  I  tremble.  Great  God  !  who  am  I  that  I  dare 
to  hope  —  " 

"  You  are  the  man  I  love,  Theodor.  Go  and  speak  to 
my  father,  go." 


THE    OATH.  235 

She  waved  her  hand  to  Hoffmann,  and  opened  the  door 
leading  to  a  small  room  used  by  her  as  an  oratory. 

Hoffmann  looked  until  the  door  had  closed,  and  sent 
to  her  through  the  door  all  the  outpourings  of  his  hearty 
with  all  the  kisses  of  his  lips. 

Then  he  entered  Master  Gottlieb's  study. 

Master  Gottlieb  Avas  so  accustomed  to  Hoffmann's  foot- 
steps, that  he  did  not  even  take  his  eyes  from  the  desk 
on  which  he  was  copying  the  "  Stabat."  The  young  man 
entered  and  stood  behind  him. 

After  a  moment,  as  he  heard  nothing  more,  not  even 
the  young  man's  breathing,  Master  Gottlieb  turned. 

"  Ah !  is  it  you,  boy  ? "  he  said,  throwing  back  his 
head  so  that  he  could  see  Hoffmann  through  his  specta- 
cles.    "  What  have  you  to  say  to  me  1  " 

Hoffmann  opened  his  mouth,  but  he  closed  it  again 
without  having  uttered  a  sound. 

"  Have  you  gone  dumb  ?  "  asked  the  old  man.  "  Bless 
my  soul !  that  would  be  a  pity.  A  rascal  who  uses  his 
voice  as  you  do  when  you  set  about  it,  can't  lose  it  like 
that,  unless  by  way  of  punishment  for  having  abused  it !  " 

"  No,  Master  Gottlieb,  no,  I  have  n't  lost  my  voice, 
thank  God  !     But,  what  I  have  to  say  to  you  —  " 

"WelU" 

"  Why,  it  seems  to  me  rather  hard  to  say." 

"  Bah !  is  it  such  a  very  hard  thing  to  say :  •  Master 
Gottlieb,  I  love  your  daughter  1 '  " 

"  You  know  that.  Master  Gottlieb?  " 

"  Upon  my  word  !  I  must  have  been  a  great  fool,  or 
rather  a  great  stupid,  not  to  have  discovered  your  love. " 

"  And  yet  you  have  allowed  me  to  go  on  loving  her." 

"  Why  not?  as  she  loves  you." 

"But  you  know  that  I  have  no  fortune,  Mastei 
Gottlieb." 


236   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

"  Pshaw  !  have  the  birds  of  the  air  a  fortune  ?  They 
sing,  they  mate,  they  build  a  nest,  and  God  feeds  them. 
We  artists  much  resemble  birds ;  we  sing,  and  God  comes 
to  our  aid.  When  the  singing  is  not  sufficient,  you  will 
be  a  painter ;  when  the  painting  Is  not  sufficient,  you  will 
be  a  musician.  I  was  no  richer  than  you  when  I  married 
my  poor  Teresa;  but  we  never  were  without  bread  or  a 
roof  to  shelter  us.  I  have  always  needed  money,  and  I 
have  never  failed  to  get  it.  Are  you  rich  in  love  ?  that 
is  all  I  ask  you.  Are  you  worthy  of  the  treasure  you 
covet  ?  that  is  all  I  want  to  know.  Do  you  love  Antonia 
better  than  your  life,  better  than  your  soul  ?  If  you  do, 
my  mind  is  at  rest;  Antonia  will  never  lack  anything. 
If  you  do  not  love  her,  that  is  a  different  matter ;  though 
you  have  a  hundred  thousand  thalers  a  year,  she  will 
always  lack  everything." 

Hoffmann  was  ready  to  kneel  before  the  artist's  beau- 
tiful philosophy.  He  bent  over  the  old  man's  hand,  and 
the  old  man  drew  him  to  his  side  and  embraced  him. 

"Well,  well,"  he  said,  "  it  is  settled.  Take  your  jour- 
ney, as  you  are  tormented  by  the  wild  longing  to  hear 
tlie  horrible  music  of  Monsieur  Mehul  and  Monsieur 
Dalayrac ;  it 's  a  young  man's  disease  that  will  soon  be 
cured.  I  have  no  fear;  take  your  journey,  my  dear  boy, 
and  come  back  to  us.  You  will  find  Mozart  here  and 
Beethoven,  Cimarosa,  Pergolese,  Paesiello,  Porpora,  and, 
in  addition,  Master  Gottlieb  and  his  daughter;  that  is  to 
say,  a  father  and  a  wife.     Go,  my  child,  go." 

And  Master  Gottlieb  once  more  embraced  Hoffmann, 
who,  seeing  that  night  was  approaching,  realized  that  he 
had  no  time  to  lose,  and  went  home  to  make  preparations 
for  his  departure. 

The  next  morning  early,  Hoffmann  was  at  his  window. 

As  the  time  for  leaving  Antonia  drew  near,  the  separa- 


THE   OATH.  237 

tion  seemed  more  and  more  impossible  to  him.  The 
whole  delightful  period  of  his  life  that  had  just  passed, 
the  seven  months  which  had  flown  by  like  a  single  day, 
and  which  appeared  in  his  memory,  now  like  a  vast  ho- 
riaou  which  he  embraced  at  a  single  glance,  and  again 
like  a  series  of  happy  days,  flitting  by  one  after  another, 
smiling  and  crowned  with  flowers ;  Antonia's  sweet  songs, 
which  had  formed  an  atmosphere  about  him  thickly  sown 
with  delicious  melodies,  —  all  this  was  such  a  potent  at- 
traction that  it  struggled,  almost  successfully,  with  the 
unknown,  that  wonderful  wizard,  who  attracts  the  strong- 
est, the  least  emotional  hearts. 

At  ten  o'clock  Antonia  appeared  at  the  corner  of  the 
street,  where,  seven  months  before,  Hofi'mann  had  seen 
her  for  the  first  time.  Her  maid  Lisbeth  followed  her  as 
usual,  and  they  went  up  the  church  steps.  On  the  top 
step  Antonia  turned,  saw  Hoffmann,  summoned  him  with 
a  motion  of  her  hand,  and  entered  the  church. 

Hoffmann  rushed  out  of  the  house  and  entered  the 
church.     Antonia  was  already  kneeling  and  in  prayer. 

Hoffmann  was  a  Protestant,  and  the  chanting  in  a  for- 
eign tongue  had  always  seemed  most  absurd  to  him ;  but 
when  he  heard  Antonia's  voice  soaring  upward  in  the 
church  music  tliat  is  at  once  so  soft  and  so  majestic,  he 
Avas  sorry  that  he  did  not  know  the  words,  so  that  he 
might  join  his  voice  to  hers,  which  was  made  even 
sweeter  by  the  profound  melancholy  under  which  she 
was  laboring. 

Throughout  the  celebration  of  the  mass  she  sang  on,  in 
the  same  voice  in  which  the  angels  in  heaven  sing.  And 
when  the  choir  boy's  bell  announced  the  consecration  of 
the  host,  when  the  faithful  bowed  their  heads  before  the 
God  who  rose  above  their  heads  in  the  priest's  hands, 
Antonia  alone  raised  her  head. 


238   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

"  Swear, "  she  said. 

"I  swear,"  said  Hoffmann,  in  a  trembling  voice,  "I 
swear  to  give  up  gambling." 

"  Is  that  the  only  oath  you  intend  to  take,  my  friend  1 " 

"  Oh,  no  !  wait.  I  swear  to  remain  true  to  you  in 
heart  and  mind,  in  body  and  soul. " 

"  Upon  what  do  you  swear  it  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Hoffmann,  in  intense  excitement,  "  I 
swear  it  upon  what  I  hold  most  dear  and  most  sacred, 
upon  your  life  !  " 

"  Thanks !  "  cried  Antonia.  "  For  if  you  do  not  keep 
your  oath,  I  shall  die. " 

Hoffmann  started,  a  shudder  ran  through  his  body;  he 
did  not  regret  what  he  had  done,  but  he  was  afraid. 

The  priest  descended  the  steps  of  the  altar,  carrying 
the  blessed  sacrament  in  the  host. 

As  the  divine  body  of  Our  Lord  passed  by,  she  seized 
Hoffmann's  hand. 

"  You  heard  his  oath,  did  you  not,  0  God  1 "  she  said. 

Hoffmann  essayed  to  speak. 

"  Kot  another  word,  not  one ;  I  propose  that  the  words 
of  your  oath,  being  the  last  I  have  heard  from  your  lips, 
shall  ring  forever  in  my  ears.  Auf  wiederseh'n,  my 
dear,  atif  wiederseh'n." 

The  girl  glided  away,  light  as  a  shadow,  leaving  a 
locket  in  her  lover's  hand.  Hoffmann  looked  after  her 
as  Orpheus  must  have  looked  after  the  fleeing  Eurydice. 
When  she  had  disappeared,  he  opened  the  locket. 

It  contained  a  portrait  of  Antonia,  resplendent  with 
youth  and  beauty. 

Two  hours  later  Hoffmann  took  his  place  in  the  same 
diligence  Zacharias  Werner  had  taken,  saying  to  himself, — 

"  Never  fear,  Antonia.  Ah !  no,  I  will  not  gamble  I 
Ah !  yes,  I  will  be  true  to  you ! " 


A  PAKIS  BAKKIEK  IN  179a  239 


VII. 

A  PARIS   BARRIER  IN   1793. 

The  young  man's  journey  through  the  France  he  had  so 
longed  to  see  was  melancholy  enough.  It  was  not  that 
he  experienced  so  many  difficulties  on  approaching  the 
centre  as  he  would  have  met  with  had  he  been  going  to 
the  frontier.  No,  the  French  Republic  welcomed  the 
coming  more  warmly  than  it  sped  the  parting  guest. 

However,  a  stranger  was  not  admitted  to  the  honor 
of  enjoying  the  benefits  of  that  precious  form  of  govern- 
ment until  he  had  complied  with  certain  formalities  that 
were  none  too  mild. 

It  was  the  period  when  the  French  knew  least  about 
writing,  but  when  they  wrote  more  than  ever  before.  It 
seemed  meet,  therefore,  to  all  recently  appointed  func- 
tionaries to  abandon  their  domestic  or  mechanical 
callings,  in  order  to  sign  and  visa  passports,  draw  up 
descriptions,  invite  recommendations,  and,  in  a  word, 
to  do  whatever  befits  the  profession  of  patriot. 

The  paper  trade  had  never  been  so  flourishing  as  at 
that  period.  That  endemic  disease  of  the  French 
people,  being  grafted  upon  terrorism,  produced  the  finest 
specimens  of  grotesque  calligraphy  that  had  ever  been 
heard  of  up  to  that   time. 

Hoffmann's  passport  was  remarkably  small.  It  was 
the  day  of  small  things.  Newspapers,  books,  the 
pamphlets  hawked  about  the  streets  were  all  reduced  to 
the  simple  octavo  at  the  largest.     But,  small  as  it  was, 


240   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

the  traveller's  passport  was  invaded  as  soon  as  he  entered 
Alsace,  by  official  signatures  which  were  not  unlike  the 
zigzags  described  by  a  drunken  man  as  he  staggers 
diagonally  across  the  street,  colliding  with  both  walls. 

Hoffmann  was  compelled,  therefore,  to  add  one  leaf 
to  his  passport  there,  and  another  in  Lorraine,  where 
the  handwritings  assumed  especially  colossal  proportions. 
Where  patriotism  was  hottest,  the  writers  were  most 
artless.  There  was  one  mayor,  who  filled  two  pages, 
back  and  front,  with  an  autograph  memorandum  thus 
conceived :  — 

"  Auphemann,  chune  Allemans,  ami  de  la  liberte,  se  rendan 
&  Pari  ha  pi^. 

«  Signe:  Golier."  i 

Armed  with  that  document,  giving  the  above  full 
particulars  concerning  his  native  country,  his  age,  his 
principles,  his  destination,  and  his  means  of  transport, 
Hoffmann's  only  preoccupation  was  to  sew  all  those 
civic  fragments  together,  and  we  should  say  that  when 
he  reached  Paris  he  had  a  very  respectable  volume, 
which,  he  said,  he  proposed  to  have  bound  in  tin  if  he 
should  ever  undertake  another  journey,  because,  as  he 
was  compelled  to  keep  the  sheets  constantly  in  his 
hand,  they  ran  too  great  a  risk  in  a  simple  pasteboard 
cover. 

Everywhere  these  or  similar  words  were  repeated  to 
him:  — 

"  My  dear  traveller,  the  provinces  are  still  habitable, 
but  Paris  is  in  a  very  excited  state.     Be  on  your  guard, 

1  Hoffmann,  jenne  Allemand,  ami  de  la  liberte,  se  rendant  ^ 
Paris  h,  pied. 

Hoffmann,  a  young  German,  friend  of  liberijy,  on  his  way  to 
Paris  on  foot. 


A  PARIS  BARRIER  IN   1793.  241 

citizen,  they  have  a  very  captious  police  force  in  Paris, 
and,  being  a  German,  you  may  not  be  treated  like  a 
good  Frenchman." 

To  which  Hoffmann  replied  with  a  proud  smile, 
reminiscent  of  the  proud  bearing  of  the  Spartans  when 
the  Thessalian  spies  tried  to  exaggerate  the  forces  of 
Xerxes,  King  of  the  Persians. 

He  arrived  before  Paris.  It  was  evening,  and  the 
barriers  were  closed. 

Hoffmann  spoke  French  fairly  well,  but  a  man  is  a 
German  or  he  is  not.  If  he  is  not  a  German  he  may 
have  an  accent  which  after  a  while  will  pass  for  the 
accent  of  one  of  our  provinces.  If  he  is  a  German,  he 
is  always  known  for  a  German. 

We  must  explain  how  police  duty  was  done  at  the 
barriers. 

In  the  first  place  they  were  closed.  Then  seven  or 
eight  sectionaries,  shrewd  and  intelligent  idlers,  amateur 
Lavaters,  smoking  their  pipes,  prowled  around  in 
squads,  in  attendance  upon  two  or  three  agents  of  the 
municipal    police. 

Those  worthy  fellows,  who,  passing  from  one  service 
to  another,  had  ended  by  haunting  all  the  clubs,  all  the 
district  bureaux,  all  the  places  into  which  politics  had 
crept  in  an  active  or  a  passive  sense;  who  had  seen 
every  deputy  at  the  National  Assembly  or  the  Conven- 
tion, all  the  aristocrats,  male  and  female,  in  the  gal- 
leries, all  the  notorious  dandies  on  the  boulevards,  all 
the  suspected  celebrities  at  the  theatres,  all  the  prison- 
ers, whether  convicted  or  discharged,  in  the  courts,  and 
all  the  respited  priests  in  the  prisons, —  those  worthy 
patriots  knew  their  Paris  so  well  that  every  familiar 
face  was  likely  to  impress  them  as  it  passed,  and,  we 
may  say,  almost  invariably  did  so  impress  them. 

16 


242   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

It  was  no  simple  matter  to  disguise  one's  self  in  those 
days.  Too  much  magnificence  in  the  costume  caught 
the  eye,  too  great  simplicity  aroused  suspicion.  As 
uncleanliness  was  one  of  the  most  popular  insignia  of 
true  civism,  every  water-carrier,  every  scullion  might 
conceal  an  aristocrat;  and  then,  how  could  the  white 
hand  with  the  beautiful  nails  be  entirely  disguised. 
And  that  aristocratic  gait,  which  is  the  simplest  of  all 
gaits  in  our  day,  when  the  lowliest  wear  the  highest 
heels,  —  how  conceal  it  from  twenty  pairs  of  eyes  keener 
than  the  nose  of  the  bloodhound  following  a  trail  ? 

A  traveller  was  therefore,  immediately  upon  his 
arrival,  searched,  questioned,  stripped  bare,  morally 
speaking,  with  a  facility  born  of  practice,  and  a  liberty 
born  of  —  liberty. 

Hoffmann  appeared  before  that  tribunal  about  six 
o'clock  in  the  evening  of  December  7.  The  weather 
was  dull  and  disagreeable,  a  mixture  of  fog  and  sleet; 
but  the  bearskin  and  otter  skin  caps  that  imprisoned  the 
patriot  heads  kept  so  much  warm  blood  in  their  brains 
and  their  ears  that  they  were  in  full  possession  of  their 
presence  of  mind  and  their  unexcelled  faculties  of 
investigation. 

Hoffmann  was  stopped  by  a  hand  placed  lightly  on 
his  breast. 

The  young  traveller  was  dressed  in  an  iron-gray  coat 
and  a  heavy  overcoat,  and  his  German  boots  outlined  a 
very  shapely  leg.  He  had  encountered  no  mud  since 
the  last  post-house,  although  the  post-chaise  had  been 
unable  to  go  on  because  of  the  sleet,  and  Hoffmann  had 
done  six  leagues  on  foot,  over  a  road  thinly  covered 
with  frozen  snow. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  citizen,  with  your  fine  boots  ?  " 
said  a  police  agent  to  the  young  man. 


A   PARIS   BARRIER   IN   1793.  243 

" I  am  going  to  Paris,  citizen." 

"You  take  a  good  deal  for  granted,  my  young 
Prusssssian,"  rejoined  the  sectionary,  pronouncing  the 
word  with  a  prodigality  of  s's  which  attracted  the  atten- 
tion of  half  a  score  of  idlers  to  the  traveller. 

The  Prussians  were  at  that  moment  as  great  foes  to 
Prance  as  the  Philistines  were  to  the  compatriots  of 
Samson   the   Israelite. 

"Well,  yes,  I  am  a  Pruzian"  retorted  Hoffmann, 
clianging  the  sectionary 's  five  s's  into  a  z.  "  What 
then  1  » 

"Why,  if  you  're  a  Prussian,  you  're  a  little  spy  of 
Pitt  and  Cobourg,  eh  ?  " 

"E-ead  my  passports,"  said  Hoffmann,  exhibiting  his 
volume  to  one  of  the  scholars  of  the  barrier. 

"Come,"  replied  the  man  addressed,  turning  on  his 
heel  to  escort  the  stranger  to  the  guard-house. 

Hoffmann  followed  his  guide  with  perfect  tranquillity. 

When,  by  the  light  of  the  smoking  candles,  the 
patriots  saw  the  nervous  youth,  with  steadfast  eye  and 
disordered  hair,  hammering  at  his  French  with  the 
utmost  conscientiousness,  one  of  them  cried, — 

"  He  won't  deny  that  he  's  an  aristocrat.  See  what 
hands  and  feet  he  has !  " 

"  You  're  a  fool,  citizen,"  retorted  Hoffmann.  "  I  'm 
as  good  a  patriot  as  you,  and  what 's  more,  I  'm  an 
artist." 

As  he  spoke  he  drew  from  his  pocket  one  of  those 
appallingly  huge  pipes,  of  which  a  German  diver  alone 
can  find  the  bottom. 

The  pipe  produced  a  prodigious  effect  upon  the  sec- 
tionaries,  who  were  smoking  their  tobacco  in  miniature 


They  all  gazed  wonderingly  at  the  young  man  as  he 


244   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

packed  into  his  pipe,  with  a  dexterity  bom  of  long 
practice,  enough  tobacco  to  last  them  a  week. 

Then  he  sat  down,  patiently  held  a  light  to  the 
tobacco  until  there  was  a  great  crust  of  fire  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  bowl,  and  expelled  at  regular  intervals  dense 
clouds  of  smoke,  which  emerged  in  graceful  bluish 
columns  from  his  nose  and  his  lips. 

"  He  smokes  well,"  said  one  of  the  sectionaries. 

"And  it  seems  that  he's  a  famous  fellow,"  said 
another.     "  Just  look  at  his  certificates. " 

"  What  have  you  come  to  Paris  for  ?  "  asked  a  third. 

**  To  study  the  science  of  liberty,"  replied  Hoffmann. 

"  And  what  else?"  continued  the  Frenchman,  little 
affected  by  the  heroic  ring  of  the  phrase,  probably 
because  he  had  heard  it  so  much. 

"  And  painting,"  said  Hoffmann. 

"Ah!  you're  a  painter,  like  Citizen  David,  are 
you  1  " 

"Exactly." 

"  Do  you  know  how  to  paint  Roman  patriots,  all 
naked ,  as  he  does  ?  " 

"  I  paint  them  all  dressed,"  Hoffmann  replied. 

"  They  're  not  so  fine  that  way." 

"That  depends,"  said  Hoffmann  with  imperturbable 
sanff  froid. 

"  Do  my  portrait,"  said  the  sectionary  admiringly. 

"I  will  gladly  doit." 

Hoffmann  took  a  burning  brand  from  the  stove,  waited 
until  the  glowing  end  had  cooled,  then  drew  upon  the 
whitewashed  wall  one  of  the  ugliest  faces  that  ever 
dishonored  the  capital  of  the  civilized  world. 

The  fur  cap  and  fox's  tail,  the  driveling  mouth,  the 
thick  whiskers,  the  short  pipe,  the  retreating  chin,  were 
copied  with  such  rare  fidelity  to  truth,  that  the  whole 


A  PARIS  BARRIER  IN   1793.  245 

of  the  guard  on  duty  requested  the  favor  of  having  their 
portraits  done  by  the  young  man. 

Hoffmann  granted  their  requests  with  good  grace, 
and  sketched  on  the  wall  a  series  of  patriots,  quite  as 
successfully  executed  but  less  noble,  most  assuredly, 
than  the  bourgeois  in  Rembrandt's  "  Ronde  Nocturne." 

When  he  had  once  put  the  patriots  in  good  humor, 
there  was  no  further  question  of  suspicion.  The  German 
was  a  naturalized  Parisian.  They  offered  him  beer,  and 
he,  like  the  thoughtful  youth  he  was,  offered  his  hosts 
Burgundy,  which  they  accepted  with  the  greatest 
cordiality. 

Then  it  was  that  one  of  them,  more  cunning  than 
the  others,  took  his  thick  nose  in  the  hook  of  his  fore- 
finger, and  said  to  Hoffmann  with  a  wink  of  his  left 
eye,— 

"Tell  us  one  thing,  Citizen  German." 

"What  is  it,  my  friend?" 

"  Tell  us  the  object  of  your  journey." 

"I  have  told  you:  politics  and  painting." 

"  No,  no,  something  else." 

"  I  assure  you ,  citizen  —  " 

"You  understand,  of  course,  that  we  sha'n't  make 
iiny  charges  against  you.  We  like  you,  and  we  '11 
protect  you;  but  there  are  two  delegates  here  from  the 
Cordeliers  Club  and  two  from  the  Jacobins.  I  myself 
belong  to  the  Brothers  and  Friends.  Select  among  us 
the  club  to  which  you  prefer  to  do  homage. " 

"Homage,  what  do  you  toean?"  said  Hoffmann, 
greatly  surprised. 

"Oh!  don't  try  to  hide  it.  It's  such  a  fine  thing 
that  you  ought  to  display  it  everywhere." 

"  Eeally,  citizen,  you  make  me  blush ;  explain 
yourself. " 


246   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

"  Look  and  tell  me  if  I  am  not  good  at  guessing. " 
He  opened  the  book  of  passports  and  pointed  with  his 

fat  finger  to  the  following  lines  under  the  heading  of 

Strashurg:  — 

"  Hoffmann,  travelling  from  Mannheim,  had  in  his  posses- 
sion at  Strasburg  a  box  marked  thus :  O.  B." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Hoffmann. 

"  Very  good !  what  does  that  box  contain  ?  " 

"I  declared  its  contents  to  the  customs  officers  at 
Strasburg. " 

"  Just  see,  citizens,  what  this  sly  dog  is  bringing  here. 
You  remember  what  our  patriots  at  Auxerre  sent  us  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  one;  "  a  box  of  lard." 

"What  fori" 

"To  grease  the  guillotine,"  cried  a  number  of  well^ 
satisfied  voices. 

"Well!"  said  Hoffmann,  changing  color  a  little, 
"  what  connection  can  there  be  between  this  box  of 
mine  and  the  box  sent  by  the  patriots  of  Auxerre  1  " 

"Eead, "  said  the  Parisian,  pointing  to  his  passport. 
"Eead,  young  man:  'Travelling  for  politics  and  art.' 
It  is  written !  " 

"  C  Kepublic !  "  muttered  Hoffmann. 

"So  confess,  young  friend  of  liberty,"  said  his 
protector. 

"  That  would  be  taking  credit  for  an  idea  that  never 
occurred  to  me,"  replied  Hoffmann.  "  I  don't  care  for 
false  glory.  No,  the  box  I  had  at  Strasburg,  which 
will  arrive  by  carrier,  contains  only  a  violin,  a  box  of 
colors,  and  some  rolls  of  canvas." 

Those  words  caused  a  great  diminution  in  the  esteem 
which  some  of  those  present  had  conceived  for  Hoff- 
mann.    They  gave  him  back  his  papers.     They  drank 


A  PARIS  BAREIER  IN  1793.  247 

bumpers  with  him,  but  they  ceased  to  look  upon  him  as 
the  saviour  of  enslaved  nations. 

One  of  the  patriots  went  so  far  as  to  remark,  — 

"  He  looks  like  Saint- Just,  but  I  prefer  Saint- Just. " 

Hoffmann,  once  more  buried  in  his  reverie,  which 
the  heat  of  the  stove,  the  tobacco,  and  the  Burgundy 
tended  to  deepen,  sat  for  some  time  without  speaking. 
But  suddenly  he  raised  his  head. 

"  Is  the  guillotine  doing  a  good  deal  of  work  here  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"Pretty  well,  pretty  well.  It's  fallen  off  a  little 
since  the  Brissotins,  but  still  it's  very  satisfactory." 

"  Do  you  know  where  I  can  find  comfortable  lodgings, 
my  friends  1  " 

"  Anywhere. " 

"  But  where  I  can  see  everything. " 

"  Ah !  in  that  case  you  must  find  a  place  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  Quai  aux  Fleurs. " 

"Very  good." 

"  Do  you  know  where  Quai  aux  Fleurs  is  ?  " 

"  No ,  but  the  word  fleurs  [flowers]  pleases  me.  I 
fancy  myself  already  installed  on  Quai  aux  Fleurs. 
How  do  I  get  there  1  " 

"  You  must  go  straight  down  Rue  d'Enfer,  and  you  '11 
get  to  the  quay." 

"Quay,  that  means  that  it's  on  the  water!"  said 
Hoffmann. 

"Exactly." 

"  And  that  water  is  the  Seine  ?  " 

«  The  Seine." 

"  So  the  Quai  aux  Eleurs  is  on  the  Seine,  is  it  ?  " 

"You  know  Paris  better  than  I  do.  Citizen  German." 

"  Thanks.     Farewell.     May  I  go  in  ?  " 

"  You  have  one  more  little  formality  to  comply  with.  * 


248      THE   WOMAN  WITH  THE   VELVET  NECKLACE. 

"What  is  that?" 

"  You  must  go  to  the  commissioner  of  police  and  get 
from  him  a  permit  to  stay  in  the  city. " 

"  Very  good !  Farewell." 

"  Wait  a  moment.  With  that  permit  from  the  com- 
missioner you  must  go  to  the  police." 

"  Oho !  " 

"  And  give  the  address  of  your  lodgings. " 

"Very  good!  is  that  all?" 

"No;  you  must  go  to  the  headquarters  of  the 
section. " 

"What  for?" 

"  To  satisfy  the  authorities  as  to  your  means  of  sub- 
sistence. " 

"  I  will  do  all  that;  and  will  that  be  all  ?  " 

"  Not  yet.  You  will  have  to  show  your  patriotism 
by  gifts." 

"Willingly." 

"  And  take  an  oath  of  hatred  to  all  French  and  foreign 
tyrants. " 

"  With  all  my  heart.  Thanks  for  your  valuable 
information. " 

"  And  then  you  must  n't  forget  to  write  your  full 
name  legibly  on  a  placard  and  hang  it  at  your  door. " 

"That  shall  be  done." 

"Go  now,  citizen,  you  annoy  us." 

The  bottles  were  empty. 

"  Farewell ,  citizens.    Many  thanks  for  your  courtesy. " 

And  Hoffmann  took  his  leave,  still  accompanied  by 
his  pipe,  which  was  burning  more  fiercely  than  ever. 

That  is  how  he  made  his  entry  into  the  capital  of 
republican  France. 

The  fascinating  phrase,  "  Quai  aux  Fleurs,"  had  made 
his  mouth  water.     He  saw  in  his  mind's  eye  a  little 


A  PAKIS  BARKIEE  IN   1793.  249 

room  with  a  balcony,  looking  on  that  marvellous  Quai 
aux  Fleurs. 

He  forgot  December  and  the  north  winds.  He  forgot 
the  snow  and  the  temporary  death  of  all  nature.  The 
flowers  bloomed  in  his  imagination  under  the  smoke 
that  poured  from  his  lips.  He  saw  nothing  but  jasmine 
and  roses,  despite  the  filthy  streets  of  the  faubourg. 

As  the  clock  struck  nine,  he  reached  Quai  aux  Meurs, 
which  was  as  utterly  dark  and  deserted  as  all  the  north- 
ern quays  are  in  winter.  But  that  evening  the  solitude 
was  darker  and  more  noticeable  there  than  anywhere. 

Hoffmann  was  too  hungry  and  too  cold  to  philosophize 
in  the  open  air;  but  there  was  no  public  house  on  the 
quay. 

Raising  his  eyes,  he  discovered  at  last,  on  the  corner 
of  the  quay  and  Rue  de  la  Barillerie,  a  common  red 
lantern,  within  which  a  dirty  wick  flickered  dimly. 

That  beacon  light  swung  back  and  forth  at  the  end  of 
an  iron  bracket,  very  well  adapted  for  the  suspension 
of  a  political  foe  in  those  days  of  tumult. 

Hoffmann  saw  these  words  in  green  letters  on  the 
red  glass:  — 

"  Rooms  to  let.  —  Pubnished  Bedeooms  and 
Cabinets." 

He  knocked  sharply  at  a  hall  door.  The  door 
opened;  the  traveller  entered,  feeling  his  way. 

"  Shut  your  door,"  cried  a  harsh  voice. 

And  a  huge  dog  barked,  as  if  to  say,  — 

"  Look  out  for  your  legs !  " 

Having  agreed  as  to  terms  with  a  landlady  of  not 
unattractive  aspect,  and  having  selected  his  room, 
Hoffmann  found  himself  in  possession  of  a  space  fifteen 
feet  by  eight,  forming  a  bedroom  and  study  in  one,  at  a 


250   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

rent  of  thirty  sous  per  day,  payable  every  morning  when 
he  rose. 

Hoffmann  was  in  such  high  spirits  that  he  paid  for  a 
fortnight  in  advance,  for  fear  that  some  one  might 
undertake  to  deprive  him  of  his  precious  lodgings. 

That  done,  he  went  to  bed  between  sheets  that  were 
decidedly  damp ;  but  any  bed  is  a  bed  to  a  traveller  of 
eighteen.  And  then,  too,  how  could  he  be  exacting 
when  he  had  the  good  fortune  to  lodge  on  Quai  aux 
Fleurs  ? 

Moreover  Hoffmann  invoked  the  memory  of  Antonia, 
and  is  not  the  place  where  one  invokes  the  angels  always 
paradise  1 


THE  MUSEUMS   AND   LIBRARIES   CLOSED.        251 


VIII. 

HOW     THE    MUSEUMS    AND    LIBRARIES    WERE     CLOSED, 
BUT   PLACE   DE   LA   REVOLUTION   WAS    OPEN. 

The  room  which  was  destined  to  be  Hoffmann's  terres- 
trial paradise  for  a  fortnight  contained  a  bed,  as  we 
know,  a  table,   and  two  chairs. 

It  had  a  mantel-piece  embellished  with  two  blue 
glass  vases  filled  with  artificial  flowers.  A  figure  of 
Liberty  in  sugar  posed  beneath  a  crystal  bell  in  which 
its  tricolored  flag  and  red  cap  were  reflected. 

A  copper  chandelier,  a  corner-piece  in  old  rosewood, 
a  twelfth  century  tapestry  for  a  curtain,  —  such  was  the 
furniture  of  the  apartment  as  disclosed  by  the  first  rays 
of  dawn. 

The  tapestry  represented  Orpheus  playing  the  violin 
to  win  back  Eurydice,  and  the  violin  naturally  recalled 
Zacharias  Werner  to  Hoffmann's  memory. 

"  Dear  friend,"  mused  our  traveller,  "  he  is  in  Paris, 
and  so  am  I.  We  are  together,  and  I  shall  see  him 
to-day  or  to-morrow  at  latest.  Where  shall  I  begin? 
How  must  I  set  to  work  in  order  not  to  waste  any  of 
the  good  Lord's  time  and  to  see  everything  in  France? 
For  several  days  past  I  have  seen  nothing  but  living 
pictures,  and  very  ugly  ones  at  that.  Let 's  go  to  the 
ex-tyrant's  Louvre.  There  I  shall  see  all  the  fine 
pictures  he  had,  the  Rubens,  the  Poussins.  Let 's  be 
off  at  once." 


252   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

He  rose  and  went  to  the  window,  to  examine  first  the 
panoramic  tableau  of  his  neighborhood. 

A  dull,  gray  sky,  black  mud  under  white  trees, 
people  running  busily  hither  and  thither,  and  a  noise 
like  the  murmur  of  running  water.  That  is  all  he 
discovered. 

There  was  but  little  that  was  suggestive  of  flowers. 
Hoifiaann  closed  his  window,  breakfasted,  and  went 
out,  proposing  first  of  all  to  see  his  friend  Zacharias 
Werner. 

But,  as  he  was  on  the  point  of  starting,  he  remem- 
bered that  Werner  had  never  given  him  his  address, 
without  which  it  would  be  somewhat  difficult  to  find 
him. 

That  was  no  small  disappointment  to  Hoflfmann. 
But  in  a  moment  he  said  to  himself,  — 

"  Fool  that  I  am !  Zacharias  loves  the  same  things 
that  I  do.  I  long  to  see  fine  paintings.  He  must  have 
had  the  same  longing.  I  shall  find  him  or  some  trace 
of  him  at  the  Louvre.     Let  us  go  to  the  Louvre. " 

He  could  see  the  Louvre  from  the  parapet  of  the 
quay,  so  he  bent  his  steps  in  the  direction  of  the  pile. 

But  he  was  grieved  to  learn  at  the  door  that  the 
French,  since  they  had  been  free,  did  not  choose  to 
debase  themselves  by  looking  at  paintings  of  slaves, 
and  that,  assuming,  which  was  not  probable,  that  the 
Commune  of  Paris  had  not  already  burned  up  all  the 
daubs  to  feed  the  fires  in  the  manufactories  of  weapons 
of  war,  they  would  take  care  to  use  all  that  oil  to  feed 
the  rats  that  were  destined  to  furnish  the  patriots  with 
food  when  the  Prussians  should  lay  siege  to  Paris. 

Hoffmann  felt  the  perspiration  start  on  his  forehead. 
The  man  who  spoke  thus  to  him  had  a  certain  manner 
of  speaking  that  betrayed  his  importance. 


THE   MUSEUMS   AND   LIBRARIES   CLOSED.         253 

The  eloquent  orator  was  much  applauded. 

Hoffmann  learned  from  one  of  the  bystanders  that 
he  had  the  honor  of  speaking  to  Citizen  Simon ,  governor 
of  the  children  of  France  and  curator  of  the  royal 
museums. 

"  I  shall  not  see  any  pictures,"  he  said  with  a  sigh. 
"  Ah  me  !  it  *s  a  great  pity  !  But  I  will  go  to  the  late 
king's  Library,  and,  in  lieu  of  pictures,  I  shall  see 
there  engravings,  medals,  and  manuscripts.  I  shall  see 
the  tomb  of  Childeric,  Clovis'  father,  and  P^re 
Coronelli's  celestial  and  terrestrial  globes." 

But  Hoffmann,  when  he  reached  the  Library,  was 
pained  to  learn  that  the  French  nation,  looking  upon 
science  and  literature  as  a  source  of  corruption  and  bad 
citizenship,  had  closed  all  the  places  of  resort  of  pre- 
tended scholars  and  pretended  men  of  letters,  from 
motives  of  humanity ,  and  to  save  themselves  the  trouble 
of  guillotining  the  poor  devils.  Moreover,  even  under 
the  tyrant,  the  Library  was  open  only  twice  a  week. 

Hoffmann  was  obliged  to  retire  without  seeing  any- 
thing. He  even  forgot  to  ask  for  news  of  his  friend 
Zacharias. 

But,  as  he  was  a  persevering  youth,  he  persisted  in 
his  efforts,  and  tried  to  gain  admission  to  the  Sainte- 
Avoye  Museum.  He  was  informed  that  the  proprietor 
had  been  guillotined  two  days  before. 

He  went  as  far  as  the  Luxembourg;  but  that  palace 
had  become  a  prison. 

His  strength  and  his  courage  being  alike  exhausted, 
he  retraced  his  steps  toward  his  hotel ,  to  rest  his  weary 
legs  a  little,  to  dream  of  Antonia  and  Zacharias,  and  to 
smoke  a  two  hours'  pipe  in  solitude. 

But,  marvel  of  marvels !  That  same  Quai  aux 
Fleurs,    recently   so    peaceful,  so   deserted,  was   black 


254      THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET   NECKLACE. 

with  a  multitude  of  people,  rushing  about  and  shouting 
discordantly. 

Hoffmann,  who  was  not  tall,  could  see  nothing  over 
the  shoulders  of  all  those  people.  He  made  haste  to 
force  his  way  through  the  crowd  with  his  sharp  elbows, 
and  to  return  to  his  room. 

He  stationed  himself  at  his  window. 

All  eyes  were  at  once  turned  upon  him,  and  he  was 
embarrassed  for  a  moment,  for  he  noticed  how  few 
windows  were  open.  However,  the  curiosity  of  the 
crowd  was  soon  directed  to  some  other  point  than 
Hoffmann's  window,  and  the  young  man  himself  did  as 
the  others  did,  and  looked  at  the  porch  of  a  great  black 
building  with  pointed  roofs,  and  a  belfry  at  the  top  of  a 
large  square  tower. 

He  summoned  the  landlady. 

**  Citizeness, "  he  said,  "what  is  that  building, 
pray?" 

"The  Palais,  citizen." 

"  What  do  they  do  at  the  Palais  t  '* 

"  They  try  people  at  the  Palais  de  Justice,  citizen." 

"  I  thought  there  were  no  courts  now. " 

"  Oh  !  yes,  there  's  the  Revolutionary  Tribunal." 

"  Ah  !  true  —  and  all  these  good  people  1  " 

"  Are  waiting  for  the  arrival  of  the  tumbrils. " 

"What?  the  tumbrils?  I  don't  quite  understand. 
Excuse  me ,  I  am  a  foreigner. " 

"  The  tumbrils,  citizen,  are  just  the  same  as  hearses 
for  dead  people. " 

"Ah!  GottimHimmel!" 

"  Yes ;  in  the  morning  the  prisoners  arrive  who  are  to 
be  tried  by  the  Revolutionary  Tribunal. " 

"I  see." 

"At  four  o'clock  the  prisoners  are  all  tried,  and  they 


THE  MUSEUMS   AND   LIBRARIES  CLOSED.        255 

pack  them  in  the  tumbrils  that  Citizen  Fouquier  has 
ordered  for  that  purpose." 

"  Who  is  Citizen  Fouquier?  " 

*'  The  public  prosecutor. " 

"Very  well,  and  then?" 

**  Then  the  tumbrils  go  at  a  slow  trot  to  Place  de  la 
Ke volution,  where  the  guillotine  stands  all  the  time." 

"Eeally!" 

"  What!  you  have  been  out  and  you  did  n't  go  to  see 
the  guillotine  ?  That 's  the  first  thing  strangers  go  to 
see  when  they  arrive.  It  seems  that  we  French  are  the 
only  people  who  have  guillotines." 

*  I  congratulate  you,  madame." 

"  Say  citizeness. " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon. " 

**  Look,  the  tumbrils  are  coming  —  " 

"  You  are  going,  citizeness  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  no  longer  like  to  see  it." 

And  the  landlady  moved  away. 

Hoffmann  laid  his  hand  gently  on  her  arm. 

"  Excuse  me  if  I  ask  you  one  question,"  he  said. 

"Ask  it." 

"  Why  do  you  say  you  no  longer  like  to  see  it  ?  For 
ray  part,  I  should  have  said,  *  I  do  not  like  to  see  it.'  " 

"  This  is  how  it  is,  citizen.  At  first  they  guillotined 
wicked  aristocrats,  it  seems.  Those  people  carried  their 
heads  so  high,  and  they  all  had  such  an  insolent,  insult- 
ing way  about  them  that  pity  did  n't  moisten  our  eyes 
very  readily.  So  we  looked  on  willingly  enough.  It 
was  a  fine  sight  to  see  the  struggle  of  those  bold  enemies 
of  the  nation  against  death.  But  one  day  I  saw  an  old 
man  on  the  tumbril  with  his  head  jolting  against  the 
slats.  It  was  a  sad  sight.  The  next  day  I  saw  soma 
nuns.     Another  day  I  saw  a  child  of  fourteen,  and  last 


256   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

of  all  I  saw  a  girl  in  one  tumbril  and  her  mother  in 
another,  and  the  two  poor  creatures  throwing  kisses  to 
each  other  without  a  word.  They  Avere  so  pale,  their 
expression  was  so  sad,  the  smile  on  their  lips  so  ghastly, 
the  fingers,  which  were  the  only  part  of  them  that  moved 
as  they  took  the  kisses  from  their  mouths,  were  so  white 
and  trembled  so,  that  I  shall  never  forget  the  horrid 
sight,  and  I  have  sworn  never  to  run  the  risk  of  seeing 
such  another. " 

"Oho!"  said  Hoffmann,  moving  away  from  the 
window,  "do  they  do  such  things  as  thati" 

"  Yes,  citizen.     Why,  what  are  you  doing?  " 

"  Closing  the  window. " 

"What  for?" 

"  So  as  not  to  see.  '* 

"You!  a  man!" 

"You  see,  citizeness,  I  came  to  Paris  to  study  art  and 
to  breathe  the  air  of  liberty.  Now,  if  I  should  have 
the  ill-fortune  to  see  such  a  sight  as  you  just  described, 
if  I  should  see  a  young  girl  or  a  woman  being  dragged 
to  her  death,  although  longing  to  live,  I  should  think 
of  my  sweetheart,  citizeness,  whom  I  love  dearly,  and 
who  perhaps  —  no,  citizeness,  I  will  stay  no  longer  in 
this  room.  Have  n't  you  one  on  the  back  of  the 
house  ?  " 

"  Hush !  foolish  man ,  you  speak  too  loud.  Suppose 
my  officials  should  hear  you  ?  " 

"  Your  officials !  what  do  you  mean  by  officials  ?  ** 

"  It 's  the  republican  name  for  servant." 

"  Well!  if  your  servants  should  hear  me,  what  would 
happen  ? " 

"  It  would  happen  that,  three  or  four  days  hence,  I 
might  see  you  from  this  window,  in  one  of  the  tumbrils, 
at  half -past  four  in  the  afternoon." 


THE   MUSEUMS   AND   LIBKAEIES  CLOSED.        257 

Having  uttered  these  words  in  a  mysterious  tone,  the 
good  woman  ran  hastily  downstairs,  and  Hoffmann 
followed  her. 

He  glided  out  of  the  house,  resolved  to  do  anything 
to  avoid  the  popular  spectacle. 

When  he  was  at  the  corner  of  the  quay,  the  sabres  of 
the  gendarmes  gleamed  in  the  air;  there  was  a  move- 
ment in  the  crowd;  the  dense  masses  of  people  roared 
and  began  to  run. 

Hoffmann  made  his  way  at  full  speed  to  Rue  Saint- 
Denis,  and  ran  along  that  thoroughfare  like  a  madman. 
He  doubled  on  his  tracks  through  various  narrow  streets, 
like  a  hare,  and  disappeared  in  the  labyrinth  of  passages 
that  run  in  all  directions  between  Quai  de  la  Ferraille 
and  the  markets. 

He  breathed  freely  at  last,  when  he  found  himself  on 
Rue  de  la  Ferrourerie,  where,  with  the  keen  insight  of 
the  poet  and  painter,  he  identified  the  spot  made  famous 
by  the  assassination  of  Henri  IV. 

From  there  he  went  on,  looking  about  him  in  every 
direction,  until  he  reached  Rue  Saint-Honore.  The 
shops  were  closed  wherever  he  went.  Hoffmann  won- 
dered at  the  tranquillity  of  the  quarter.  Not  only  were 
the  shops  closed,  but  the  windows  of  certain  houses  were 
hermetically  sealed,  as  if  they  had  received  a  signal. 

That  state  of  things  was  soon  explained  to  Hoffmann's 
satisfaction.  He  saw  the  cabs  turn  and  take  to  the  side 
streets.  He  heard  the  galloping  of  horses,  and  recog- 
nized the  gendarmes;  and  behind  them,  in  the  evening 
mist,  he  saw  a  confused,  ghastly  hubbub  of  rags,  arms 
waving  in  the  air,  pikes  brandishing,  and  flaming  eyes. 

And  above  it  all,  a  tumbril. 

Issuing  from  that  whirlwind,  which  burst  upon  him 
before  he  could  fly  or  conceal  himself,  Hoffmann  heard 

17 


258   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

such  ear-piercing,  piteous  shrieks  as  never  had  fallen 
upon  his  ears  until  that  evening. 

On  the  tumbril  was  a  woman  dressed  in  white.  Those 
shrieks  issued  from  the  lips,  the  soul,  the  whole  dis- 
tracted body  of  that  woman. 

Hoffmann  felt  his  legs  give  way  under  him.  Those 
piteous  shrieks  had  deprived  his  nerves  of  all  their 
force.  He  sank  upon  a  stone,  with  his  head  resting 
against  the  shutters  of  a  shop,  which  had  been  closed  so 
hurriedly  that  they  were  still  partly  ajar. 

The  tumbril  arrived  opposite  him,  with  its  escort  of 
bandits  and  hideous  women,  its  usual  satellites;  but, 
strangely  enough,  all  those  dregs  did  not  effervesce,  all 
those  reptiles  made  no  sound.  The  victim  alone  writhed 
in  the  arms  of  two  men,  and  called  frantically  upon 
heaven  and  earth,  upon  men  and  things. 

Suddenly  Hoffmann  heard,  through  the  chink  in  the 
shutters,  these  words  pronounced  in  a  sad  tone  by  a 
sympathetic,  youthful  voice, — 

"  Poor  Du  Barry !  so  you  have  come  to  this !  " 

**  Madame  du  Barry !  "  cried  Hoffmann.  "  Is  it  she, 
is  that  she  passing  on  the  tumbril  1  " 

"Yes,  monsieur,"  replied  the  low,  pitying  voice  in 
the  traveller's  ear,  so  close  that  he  felt  his  interlocutor's 
hot  breath  between  the  boards. 

Poor  Du  Barry  was  standing  erect,  clinging  to  the 
moving  side  of  the  tumbril.  Her  chestnut  hair,  the 
pride  of  her  beauty,  had  been  cut  at  the  neck,  but  fell 
around  the  temples  in  long  locks  drenched  with  sweat. 
Lovely  still,  with  her  great,  haggard  eyes,  her  little 
mouth,  —  too  small  for  the  frightful  outcry  she  was 
making,  —  the  unhappy  woman  shook  her  head  convul- 
sively from  time  to  time  to  throw  aside  the  hair  that 
covered  her  face. 


THE  MUSEUMS  AND  LIBRARIES  CLOSED.        259 

When  she  passed  the  stone  on  which  Hoffmann  had 
fallen,  she  cried,  "Help!  save  me!  I  have  done  no 
harm!  help!  "  and  she  nearly  overturned  the  execu- 
tioner's assistant  who  was  holding  her. 

That  cry  of  "  Help !  "  she  did  not  cease  to  utter  amid 
the  profound  silence  of  the  multitude.  Those  furies, 
who  were  in  the  habit  of  heaping  insults  upon  the 
victims  who  went  bravely  to  their  death,  were  touched 
by  the  irresistible  outburst  of  a  woman's  terror.  They 
felt  that  their  outcries  would  not  have  succeeded  in 
drowning  the  groans  of  that  fever  which  bordered  upon 
madness,  and  was  sublime  in  its  very  horror. 

Hoffmann  rose,  no  longer  conscious  of  a  heart  within 
his  breast.  He  began  to  run  after  the  tumbril  with 
the  rest,  one  more  ghost  added  to  the  procession  of 
spectres  that  formed  the  last  escort  of  a  king's  favorite. 

Madame  du  Barry  noticed  him  and  shrieked,  — 

"  Life !  life !  I  give  all  I  own  to  the  nation !  Mon- 
sieur! Save  me!  " 

"  She  spoke  to  me !  "  thought  the  young  man.  "  Poor 
woman,  whose  glances  were  once  valued  so  high,  whose 
words  were  priceless  treasures,  she  spoke  to  me !  " 

He  halted.  The  tumbril  had  reached  Place  de  la 
Revolution.  In  the  darkness,  increased  by  a  cold  rain, 
Hoffmann  could  see  naught  but  two  shadows:  one, 
all  white,  was  that  of  the  victim;  the  other,  red,  of  the 
scaffold. 

He  saw  the  executioners  drag  the  white  dress  up  the 
ladder.  He  saw  that  struggling  form  straighten  itself 
out  to  resist,  then  suddenly,  amid  her  piercing  shrieks, 
the  poor  woman  lost  her  balance  and  fell  on  the  block. 

Hoffmann  heard  her  cry:  "Mercy,  Monsieur  le 
Bourreau !  ^     Just    one    moment    more,    Monsieur    le 

1  Executioner. 


260      THE  WOMAN   WITH  THE  VELVET   NECKLACE. 

Bourreau !  "  And  that  was  all.  The  knife  fell  with  a 
sinister  flash. 

Hoffmann  fell  backward  into  the  ditch  that  sur- 
rounded the  square. 

It  was  a  fine  picture  for  an  artist  who  had  come  to 
France  in  search  of  impressions  and  ideas.  God  had 
allowed  him  to  witness  the  too  cruel  punishment  of  the 
woman  who  had  helped  to  destroy  the  monarchy. 

La  du  Barry's  cowardly  death  seemed  to  him  to 
absolve  the  poor  creature.  She  could  never  have  had 
any  pride,  since  she  did  not  even  know  how  to  die! 
To  know  how  to  die,  alas!  in  those  days,  was  the 
supreme  virtue  of  those  who  had  never  known  vice. 

Hoffmann  reflected  that,  if  he  had  come  to  Paris  to 
see  extraordinary  things,  his  journey  was  not  a  failure. 

Somewhat  comforted  by  the  philosophy  of  history,  he 
said  to  himself,  — 

"  There  is  still  the  theatre.  Let  us  go  to  the  theatre. 
I  am  well  aware  that,  after  the  actress  I  have  just  seen, 
those  who  act  in  ordinary  tragedy  or  opera  will  have  no 
efiect  on  me,  but  I  will  be  indulgent.  One  must  not 
ask  too  much  of  women  who  die  of  laughing  only.  But 
I  will  try  and  remember  that  square  so  that  I  may  never 
go  there  again  while  I  live." 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  PARIS.  261 


IX. 

THE  JUDGMENT   OP   PARIS. 

Hoffmann  was  a  man  of  sudden  transitions.  After 
Place  de  la  Revolution  and  the  tumultuous  mob  gathered 
about  a  scaffold,  the  gloomy  sky  and  the  blood,  he  must 
needs  have  the  glare  of  many  candles,  the  joyous  multi- 
tude, flowers,  in  a  word,  life.  He  was  not  sure  that  he 
could  by  that  means  banish  the  memory  of  the  sight  he 
had  just  witnessed,  but  he  was  determined  at  all  events 
to  give  his  eyes  a  change  of  scene  and  to  satisfy  himself 
that  there  were  still  people  in  the  world  who  lived  and 
laughed. 

He  bent  his  steps  toward  the  Opera  therefore;  but 
he  arrived  there  without  knowing  how  he  arrived. 
His  resolution  walked  in  front,  and  he  followed  it  as  a 
blind  man  follows  his  dog,  while  his  mind  travelled  in 
an  opposite  direction,  among  sights  and  sounds  of  a  very 
different  nature. 

As  on  Place  de  la  Revolution,  there  was  a  crowd  on 
the  boulevard  where  the  home  of  the  Opera  then  was, 
on  the  present  site  of  the  Theatre  de  la  Porte  Saint- 
Martin. 

Hoffmann  stopped  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  and 
looked  at  the  poster. 

They  were  playing  the  "  Judgment  of  Paris,"  a  ballet- 
pantomime  in  three  acts,  by  Monsieur  Gardel  the 
younger,  a  son  of  Marie-Antoinette's  dancing-master, 
and  at  a  later  period  master  of  ballets  to  the  emperor. 


262      THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   VELVET   NECKLACE. 

"  The  '  Judgment  of  Paris,'  "  muttered  the  poet,  gazing 
fixedly  at  the  poster,  as  if  to  engrave  in  his  mind,  with 
the  aid  of  his  eyes  and  ears,  the  meaning  of  those  three 
words,  the  "  Judgment  of  Paris. " 

But  to  no  purpose  did  he  repeat  the  syllables  compos- 
ing the  title  of  the  ballet.  They  seemed  to  him  utterly 
devoid  of  meaning,  so  hard  was  it  for  his  mind  to  cast 
out  the  terrible  memories  with  which  it  was  filled,  to 
make  room  for  the  work  borrowed  by  Monsieur  Gardel 
the  younger  from  Homer's  "  Iliad." 

What  a  strange  epoch  was  that  when  one  could  see 
a  condemnation  in  the  morning,  an  execution  in  the 
afternoon,  and  ballet-dancing  in  the  evening,  all  in 
the  same  day,  and  when  one  ran  the  risk  of  being 
arrested  one's  self  upon  recovering  from  all  that  excite- 
ment ! 

Hoffmann  realized  that  unless  somebody  else  told  him 
what  the  play  was  to  be,  he  should  never  succeed  in 
finding  out,  and  that  he  might  perhaps  go  mad  before 
that  poster. 

So  he  walked  up  to  a  stout  gentleman  who  was  stand- 
ing in  the  line  with  his  wife,  —  for  in  all  time  stout 
men  have  had  a  mania  for  standing  in  line  with  their 
wives,  —  and  said  to  him, — 

"  What  do  they  play  this  evening,  monsieur?  " 

*  You  can  see  on  the  poster,  monsieur,"  the  stout  man 
replied ;  "  the  '  Judgment  of  Paris. '  " 

"  The  Judgment  of  Paris,"  Hoffmann  repeated.  "  Oh, 
yes,  the  Judgment  of  Paris;  I  know  what  that  is." 

The  stout  man  looked  at  his  strange  questioner  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a  gesture  expressive  of  the 
most  profound  contempt  for  this  young  man,  who,  in 
those  ultra-mythological  days,  could  have  forgotten  for 
an  instant  what  the  judgment  of  Paris  was. 


THE   JUDGMENT   OF  PARIS.  263 

*  Would  you  like  an  explanation  of  the  ballet, 
citizen?"  said  a  dealer  in  libretti,  approaching 
Hoffmann. 

"  Yes,  give  me  one  !  " 

It  was  an  additional  proof  to  our  hero  that  he  was 
really  going  to  the  play,  and  he  needed  it. 

He  opened  the  book  and  glanced  over  its  contents. 

It  was  daintily  printed  on  fine  white  paper  and 
enriched  by  a  preface  by  the  author. 

**  What  a  marvellous  thing  man  is !  "  thought  Hoff- 
mann, looking  over  the  few  lines  of  the  preface,  which 
he  had  not  as  yet  read,  but  which  he  proposed  to  read; 
"and  how  he  marches  on  alone,  selfish  and  indifferent, 
along  the  pathway  of  his  own  interests  and  ambitions, 
while  forming  a  part  of  the  common  mass  of  mankind ! 
For  instance,  here  is  a  man,  this  Monsieur  Gardel  the 
younger,  who  produced  this  ballet  on  March  5,  1793, 
that  is  to  say,  six  weeks  after  the  king's  death,  —  six 
weeks  after  one  of  the  most  momentous  events  in  the 
world's  history;  and  on  the  day  when  this  ballet  was 
produced,  he  had  private  emotions  of  his  own,  distinct 
from  the  general  emotion.  His  heart  beat  fast  when 
his  work  was  applauded;  and  if,  at  that  moment, 
somebody  had  spoken  to  him  of  the  event  which  still 
thrilled  the  world,  and  had  mentioned  King  Louis 
XVI.,  he  would  have  exclaimed:  *  Louis  XVI.,  who  is 
he?  '  And  then,  as  if,  from  the  day  when  he  put  his 
ballet  before  the  public,  the  whole  world  could  have  no 
other  subject  in  its  mind  than  that  choregraphic  event, 
he  wrote  a  preface  in  explanation  of  his  pantomime. 
Well,  well!  let  us  read  his  little  preface.  I  will  see 
if,  dismissing  from  my  mind  the  date  when  it  was 
written,  I  find  in  it  any  trace  of  the  circumstances  amid 
which  it  first  saw  the  light." 


264      THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   VELVET  NECKLACE. 

Hoffmann  leaned  upon  the  railing  of  the  theatre,  and 
this  is  what  he  read :  — 

"  I  have  always  noticed  in  ballet-pantomimes  that  scenic 
effects  and  varied  and  pleasing  divertissements  are  what 
most  attract  the  public  and  obtain  the  most  enthusiastic 
applause." 

"  I  must  confess  that  that  's  a  very  interesting  dis- 
covery, "  thought  Hoffmann,  unable  to  repress  a  smile  at 
that  first  display  of  ingenuousness.  "  What !  he  really 
has  noticed  that  the  points  that  attract  the  public  in 
ballets  are  scenic  effects  and  varied  and  pleasing 
divertissements  /  How  polite  he  is  to  Messieurs  Haydn, 
Pleyel ,  and  Mehul ,  who  wrote  the  music  for  the  '  Judg- 
ment of  Paris  !  '  "     Let  us  see  what  else  he  says. " 

"  In  accordance  with  that  observation,  I  sought  a  subject 
which  could  be  so  treated  as  to  display  the  great  talents  in 
the  matter  of  dancing  which  the  Paris  Opera  alone  possesses, 
and  which  would  at  the  same  time  permit  me  to  carry  out 
such  ideas  as  chance  might  suggest  to  me.  Poetic  history  is 
the  inexhaxistible  soil  which  the  master  of  the  ballet  should 
cultivate.  It  is  not  without  thorns;  but  one  must  know 
how  to  put  them  aside  in  order  to  pluck  the  rose." 

"  Well !  upon  my  word  !  there  's  a  sentence  to  be  put 
in  a  golden  frame !  "  cried  Hoffmann.  "  Such  things 
are  written  nowhere  but  in  France." 

He  looked  down  at  the  book  once  more,  intending  to 
continue  the  perusal  of  those  interesting  aphorisms 
which  were  beginning  to  cheer  him  up  a  little;  but  his 
mind,  momentarily  diverted  from  its  real  preoccupation, 
gradually  returned  to  it.  The  letters  became  confused 
under  the  dreamer's  eyes.  He  let  fall  the  hand  that 
held  the  "Judgment  of  Paris,"  fixed  his  eyes  on  the 
ground  and  muttered,  — 


THE   JUDGMENT   OB'  PARIS.  265 

"  Poor  woman !  " 

The  ghost  of  Madame  du  Barry  again  passed  through 
his  memory. 

Thereupon  he  shook  his  head  as  if  to  hanish  from  it 
the  gloomy  realities  of  the  present,  purchased  his  ticket, 
and  entered  the  theatre. 

The  great  hall  was  full,  and  resplendent  with  flowers, 
jewels,  silks,  and  bare  shoulders.  A  loud,  incessant 
hum,  —  the  hum  of  perfumed  women,  of  trivial  words, 
like  the  noise  that  thousands  of  flies  would  make  in  a 
paper  box,  and  consisting  principally  of  remarks  that 
leave  the  same  trace  on  the  mind  that  a  butterfly's 
wings  leave  on  the  finger  of  a  child  who  catches  it, 
and,  two  minutes  later,  not  knowing  what  to  do  with  it, 
throws  up  his  hand  and  restores  its  liberty. 

Hofi"mann  took  a  seat  in  the  orchestra,  and  under  the 
influence  of  the  glowing  atmosphere  of  the  place,  he 
succeeded  in  believing  for  a  moment  that  he  had  been 
there  since  morning,  and  that  the  sorowful  scene  he  had 
witnessed  was  a  nightmare  and  not  reality.  Thereupon 
his  memory,  like  every  man's  memory,  which  has  two 
reflectors,  one  in  the  heart  and  the  other  in  the  mind, 
turned  back  insensibly,  as  a  natural  result  of  more 
cheerful  impressions,  toward  the  gentle  maiden  he  had 
left  behind  him,  whose  portrait  he  could  feel  beating 
like  another  heart  against  his  own  heart.  He  looked 
at  all  the  women  who  surrounded  him,  all  those  white 
shoulders,  all  those  masses  of  light  or  dark  hair,  all 
those  graceful  arms,  all  those  hands  playing  with  the 
sticks  of  a  fan  or  coquettishly  arranging  the  flowers  in  a 
"head-dress,  and  he  smiled  to  himself  as  he  uttered 
Antonia's  name,  as  if  that  name  were  sufficient  to  banish 
any  thought  of  comparison  between  her  who  bore  it  and 
all  those  other  women,  and  to  transport  him  to  a  world 


266      THE  WOMAN   WITH  THE   VELVET   NECKLACE. 

of  memories  immeasurably  more  charming  than  all  those 
real  forms,  however  beautiful  they  might  be.  Then, 
as  if  that  were  not  enough,  as  if  he  were  afraid  that  the 
portrait,  which  his  mind  conjured  up  across  the  space 
that  lay  between  them,  might  be  effaced  in  the  ideal 
form  in  which  it  appeared  to  him,  Hoffmann  softly 
slipped  his  hand  into  his  breast,  grasped  the  locket  as  a 
timid  girl  grasps  a  bird  in  its  nest,  and,  after  making 
sure  that  no  one  could  see  him  and  defile  with  a  glance 
the  lovely  image  he  held  in  his  hand,  he  softly  took 
out  the  young  girl's  portrait,  held  it  up  before  his  eyes, 
worshipped  it  for  a  moment  with  his  glance,  and,  after 
putting  it  devoutly  to  his  lips,  concealed  it  once  more 
over  his  heart.  Nor  could  anybody  divine  the  joy  that 
filled  the  heart  of  the  young  man  with  the  black  hair 
and  pale  complexion  as  a  result  of  what  seemed  to  be 
no  more  than  the  simple  motion  of  putting  his  hand 
into  his  waistcoat. 

At  that  moment  the  signal  was  given,  and  the  first 
notes  of  the  overture  ran  gayly  through  the  orchestra, 
like  finches  quarrelling  in  a  thicket. 

Hoffmann  sat  down  and  opened  both  ears  to  the 
music,  trying  to  become  once  more  a  man  like  those 
about  him,  that  is  to  say,  an  attentive  spectator. 

But  after  five  minutes  he  ceased  to  listen,  and  no 
longer  cared  to  hear.  That  was  not  the  sort  of  music  to 
fix  Hoffmann's  wandering  attention,  especially  as  he 
heard  it  twice  over,  for  a  neighbor,  who  was  doubtless 
an  habitue  of  the  Opera  and  an  admirer  of  Messrs. 
Haydn,  Pleyel,  and  M^hul,  accompanied  the  melodies  of 
those  gentlemen  with  perfect  accuracy  in  a  sort  of  falsetto 
undertone.  In  addition  to  that  accompaniment  with  his 
mouth,  he  accompanied  the  music  with  his  fingers,  tap- 
ping his  long  tapering  nails,  in  perfect  time  and  with 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  PARIS.         267 

fascinating  dexterity,  on   the  snuffbox  he  held  in  his 
hand. 

Hoffmann,  with  the  instinctive  curiosity  which  is 
naturally  the  most  prominent  characteristic  of  all  observ- 
ing minds,  examined  with  interest  this  personage  who 
constituted  himself,  so  to  speak,  a  private  orchestra 
grafted  on  the  general  orchestra. 

In  very  truth  he  well  deserved  to  be  examined. 

Imagine  a  small  man  wearing  a  black  coat,  waistcoat, 
and  breeches,  white  shirt  and  cravat,  of  a  whiteness  that 
was  more  than  white  and  almost  as  fatiguing  to  the  eyes 
as  the  silvery  reflection  of  snow.  Cover  half  of  this 
small  man's  hands,  —  thin  hands,  transparent  as  wax, 
which  stood  out  against  the  black  cloth  as  if  they  were 
lighted  within,  —  cover  them  with  ruffles  of  fine  linen 
pleated  with  the  greatest  care  and  flexible  as  the  leaves 
of  the  lily,  and  you  will  have  an  idea  of  the  whole  of 
the  body.  Kow  look  at  the  head,  and  look  at  it  as 
Hoffmann  did,  with  curiosity  mingled  with  amazement. 
Imagine  a  face  oval  in  shape,  the  brow  polished  like 
ivory,  sparse,  yellow  hair,  growing  here  and  there  like 
clumps  of  bushes  in  a  field.  Suppress  the  eyebrows, 
and  below  the  places  where  they  should  be,  put  two 
holes  and  in  them  a  pair  of  eyes  as  cold  as  glass,  almost 
always  staring  into  vacancy,  and  the  more  easily  believed 
to  be  inanimate,  because  you  would  look  in  vain  therein 
for  the  luminous  point  which  God  placed  in  the  eye  as  a 
spark  on  the  hearth  of  life.  Those  blue  eyes  are  like 
sapphires,  neither  gentle  nor  stern.  They  see,  to  be 
sure,  but  they  do  not  look.  A  long,  thin,  pointed  nose, 
a  small  mouth,  with  lips  half -opened,  showing  teeth 
that  are  not  white  but  of  the  same  waxen  shade  as  the 
skin,  as  if  they  had  received  a  slight  infiltration  of  pale 
blood  and  had  retained  a  tinge  of  it,  a  pointed  chin. 


268      THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

shaved  with  the  greatest  care,  protruding  cheek-bones,  — 
cheeks  in  which  there  are  holes  large  enough  to  hold  a 
walnut,  —  such  were  the  characteristic  features  of  the 
spectator  who  sat  beside  Hoffmann. 

He  might  have  been  fifty  years  old  or  thirty.  If  he 
had  been  eighty  it  would  have  been  in  no  wise  extraor- 
dinary. If  he  had  been  only  twelve  it  would  not 
have  seemed  improbable.  It  seemed  as  if  he  must  have 
come  into  the  world  as  he  then  was.  He  had  certainly 
never  been  any  younger,  and  it  was  possible  that  he 
might  have  looked  older.  It  seemed  as  if,  upon  touch- 
ing his  skin,  you  would  have  had  the  same  sensation  of 
cold  as  upon  touching  the  skin  of  a  serpent  or  a  dead 
body. 

But  he  certainly  loved  music. 

From  time  to  time  his  lips  parted  a  little  more  under 
the  impulse  of  sensuous  enjoyment,  and  three  little 
folds,  exactly  alike  on  both  sides,  described  a  semi- 
circle from  the  corners  of  his  mouth  and  remained  thero 
for  five  minutes,  then  gradually  faded  away  like  the 
circles  made  by  a  stone  falling  into  the  water,  which 
spread  out  farther  and  farther  until  they  are  no  longer 
distinguishable  on  the  surface. 

Hoflfmann  did  not  weary  of  gazing  at  this  man,  who 
felt  that  he  was  being  examined,  but  gave  no  outward 
indication  of  the  feeling.  He  sat  so  perfectly  still  that 
our  poet,  who  had  in  his  mind  at  that  time  the  seed  of 
the  fancy  that  was  to  give  birth  to  "  Coppelius,"  rested 
his  hands  on  the  back  of  the  seat  in  front,  leaned  for- 
ward, and  turned  his  head  to  the  right,  trying  to  obtain 
a  full-face  view  of  him  whose  profile  only  he  had  seen 
thus  far. 

The  little  man  looked  at  Hoffmann  without  surprise, 
smiled  upon  him,  nodded  his  head  amicably,  kept  his 


THE  JUDGMENT  OF  PARIS.         269 

eyes  fixed  upon  the  same  point,  invisible  to  everybody 
but  himself,  and  continued  to  accompany  the  orchestra. 

"It's  strange!  "  said  Hoffmann,  sitting  back  in  his 
chair,  "I  would  have  bet  that  he  wasn't  alive." 

And  as  if,  although  he  had  seen  his  neighbor  move 
his  head,  he  was  not  thoroughly  convinced  that  the  rest 
of  his  body  was  alive,  he  looked  again  at  his  hands. 
He  was  then  struck  by  the  fact  that  the  snuffbox  with 
which  those  hands  were  toying,  an  ebony  snuffbox, 
was  embellished  with  a  small  death's  head  in  diamonds. 

Everything  seemed  fated,  on  that  day,  to  assume  a 
fantastic  shape  in  Hoffmann's  eyes;  but  he  was  deter- 
mined to  gain  his  end,  so  he  leaned  forward  as  he  had 
done  before,  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  snuffbox  at 
such  close  quarters  that  his  lips  almost  touched  the 
hand  that  held  it. 

The  owner,  seeing  that  his  snuffbox  was  an  object  of 
such  engrossing  interest  to  his  neighbor,  silently  passed 
it  to  him,  so  that  he  might  examine  it  at  his  leisure. 

Hoffmann  took  it,  turned  it  over  and  over  twenty 
times,  and  at  last  opened  it. 

There  was  snuff  inside ! 


270  THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 


X. 

ABSiKE. 

Having  examined  the  snuffbox  with  the  utmost  atten- 
tion, Hoffmann  restored  it  to  its  owner,  thanking  him 
with  a  silent  motion  of  the  head  to  which  the  other 
replied  with  a  motion  as  courteous,  but,  if  such  a  thing 
were  possible,  even  more  silent. 

"  Now  let  us  see  if  he  will  speak, "  said  Hoffmann  to 
himself ;  and  he  turned  to  his  neighbor  and  said,  — 

"  I  beg  you  to  pardon  my  presumption,  monsieur,  but 
that  little  death's  head  in  diamonds  on  your  snuffbox 
surprised  me  very  much  at  first,  for  it 's  an  unusual  orna- 
ment for  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Indeed  I  believe  it  is  the  only  one  ever  made, "  re- 
plied the  stranger  in  a  metallic  voice,  whose  tones  resem- 
bled the  sound  made  by  striking  silver  coins  together. 
"  It  came  into  my  hands  from  some  grateful  heirs,  whose 
father  I  attended." 

"  You  are  a  physician  ?  " 

"  Yes,  monsieur. " 

"  And  did  you  cure  the  father  of  those  young  people  ?  " 

"  On  the  other  hand,  monsieur,  we  had  the  misfortune 
to  lose  him." 

"  I  understand  their  gratitude. " 

The  physician  began  to  laugh. 

His  replies  did  not  interrupt  his  humming,  and  ho  was 
still  humming  as  he  said, — 

"  Yes,  X  believe  I  killed  that  old  man." 


AESllNE.  271 

"HowdidyoukiUhimr' 

"I  tried  a  new  remedy  on  him.  Mon  Dieuf  in  an 
hour  he  was  dead.     Eeally  it's  very  amusing." 

He  continued  to  hum. 

"  You  seem  fond  of  music,  monsieur  ? "  queried 
Hoffmann. 

"Yes,  monsieur;  especially  this." 

"  The  devil !  "  thought  Hoffmann,  "  this  fellow  goes 
astray  in  music  as  well  as  in  medicine." 

At  that  moment  the  curtain  rose. 

The  strange  doctor  took  a  pinch  of  snuff  and  settled 
himself  as  comfortably  as  possible  in  his  stall,  like  a  man 
who  proposes  to  lose  no  part  of  the  spectacle  he  is  about 
to  witness. 

Meanwhile  he  said  to  Hoffmann,  as  if  upon  reflection,  — 

"  You  are  a  German,  monsieur  1  " 

"lam." 

"  I  recognized  your  nationality  by  your  accent.  A  fine 
country,  but  a  wretched  accent." 

Hoffmann  bowed  in  response  to  that  half-compli- 
mentary, half -critical  remark. 

"  You  have  come  to  France  —  what  for  ?  " 

"  To  see." 

"  And  what  have  you  seen  thus  far  1  " 

"  I  have  seen  a  guillotining,  monsieur." 

"  Were  you  on  Place  de  la  Revolution  to-day  1 " 

"  I  was." 

"  Then  you  were  a  witness  of  Madame  du  Barry's 
death?" 

"  Yes, "  said  Hoffmann  with  a  sigh. 

"  I  knew  her  well, "  continued  the  doctor  in  a  confi- 
dential tone,  and  so  emphasizing  the  word  knew  as  to 
impart  to  it  its  fullest  signification.  "  She  was  a  lovely 
girl,  on  my  word !  " 


272   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

"  Did  you  attend  her  too  1  " 

"No,  but  I  attended  her  negro  boy,  Zamore.'* 

"The  wretch!  I  was  told  that  it  was  he  who  de- 
nounced his  mistress." 

"  The  little  negro  was  an  ardent  patriot,  I  tell  you!  " 

"  You  would  have  done  well  to  do  with  him  as  you 
did  with  the  old  man,  —  you  know,  the  old  man  of  the 
snuffbox." 

"  What  was  the  use  1  he  had  no  heirs." 

And  the  doctor  laughed  again. 

"Were  you  present  at  the  execution  yourself,  mon- 
sieur 1  "  said  Hoffmann,  who  felt  an  irresistible  desire  to 
speak  of  the  poor  creature,  whose  bleeding  image 
haunted  him. 

" No.     Had  she  grown  thin?  " 

"Who?" 

"The  countess." 

"  I  can't  tell  you,  monsieur." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  I  saw  her  for  the  first  time  on  the  tumbril. " 

"  I  am  sorry  for  that.  I  would  have  liked  to  know, 
for  she  was  very  plump  when  I  knew  her;  but  I  will 
go  and  see  her  body  to-morrow.  Ah!  see,  look  at 
that." 

The  doctor  pointed  to  the  stage  where  at  that  moment 
Monsieur  Vestris,  who  was  playing  the  part  of  Paris, 
appeared  on  Mount  Ida  and  went  through  all  sorts  of 
antics  with  the  nymph  (Enone. 

Hoffmann  glanced  at  wliat  his  neighbor  pointed  out  to 
him;  but,  after  assuring  himself  that  the  sombre-faced 
physician  was  really  paying  close  attention  to  the  panto- 
mime, and  that  what  he  had  heard  and  said  had  left  no 
trace  on  his  mind,  he  said  to  himself,  — 

"  It  would  be  interesting  to  see  this  fellow  weep." 


ARSfeNE.  273 

"  Do  you  know  the  subject  of  the  play  ?  "  the  doctor 
continued  after  a  silence  of  a  few  moments. 

"  No,  monsieur." 

"  It 's  very  interesting.  Indeed,  there  are  some  touch- 
ing situations  in  it.  A  friend  of  mine  and  myself  had 
tears  in  our  eyes  the  other  night." 

"  A  friend  of  his  !  "  muttered  the  poet ;  "  what  sort  of 
a  creature  can  a  friend  of  this  man's  be  1  He  must  be  a 
grave-digger. " 

"  Ah !  bravo  !  bravo !  Vestris, "  shouted  the  little  man, 
clapping  his  hands. 

The  physician  had  selected  for  this  manifestation  of  his 
admiration  the  moment  when  Paris,  as  the  book  Hoff- 
mann had  purchased  at  the  door  informed  him,  seized  his 
spear  and  flew  to  the  succor  of  certain  shepherds  who 
were  running  in  terror  from  a  terrible  lion. 

I  am  not  over-curious,  but  I  would  have  liked  to  see 
the  lion. 

So  ended  the  first  act. 

Thereupon  the  doctor  stood  up,  turned  about,  leaned 
against  the  back  of  the  stall  in  front  of  his,  and,  substi- 
tuting a  little  opera-glass  for  his  snuffbox,  began  to  in- 
spect the  women  in  the  audience. 

Hoffmann  mechanically  followed  the  direction  of  the 
opera-glass  and  noticed  with  amazement  that  every  person 
upon  whom  it  rested  instantly  started  and  turned  her 
eyes  toward  the  man  who  was  looking  at  her,  exactly  as 
if  she  were  constrained  to  do  it  by  some  invisible  force. 
And  she  would  remain  in  that  position  until  the  doctor 
turned  his  glass  away. 

"Did  that  opera-glass  come  to  you  from  anybody's 
heir,  monsieur  1 "  queried  Hoffmann. 

"  No,  it  came  from  Monsieur  de  Voltaire. " 

"  Did  you  know  him  too  ?  " 

la 


274      THE   WOMAN   WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

"  Well ;  we  were  very  intimate. " 

"  Were  you  his  physician  ?  " 

"  He  did  not  believe  in  medicine.  To  be  sure,  he 
didn't  believe   in  much  of  anything." 

"  Is  it  true  that  he  died  while  he  was  confessing  ?  " 

"  He,  monsieur!  Arouet !  nonsense!  not  only  did  he 
not  confess,  but  he  gave  the  priest  who  came  to  attend 
him  a  warm  welcome.  I  can  tell  you  all  about  it,  for  I 
was  there. " 

"  What  happened,  pray  ?  " 

*  Arouet  was  dying.  Tersac,  his  cure,  appeared  and 
said  to  him  first  of  all,  like  a  man  who  has  no  time  to 
waste,  '  Monsieur,  do  you  believe  in  the  trinity  of 
Jesus  Christ  1  ' 

"*  Leave  me  in  peace,  monsieur,  I  beg  you,'  replied 
Voltaire. 

"  *  But,  monsieur,'  continued  Tersac,  *  it  is  important 
that  I  should  know  whether  you  recognize  Jesus  Christ 
as  the  son  of  God.' 

"  '  In  the  devil's  name  ! '  cried  Voltaire,  *  don't  men- 
tion that  man  to  me  again  !  '  And  summoning  what 
little  strength  he  still  had,  he  struck  the  cure  a  blow  in 
the  face,  and  died.  How  I  laughed  !  Mon  Dieu  f  how 
I  laughed !  " 

"It  was  laughable,"  said  Hoffmann  in  a  disdainful 
tone;  "and  that  was  just   the  way  that  the  author   of 

*  La  Pucelle'  should  die." 

"Ah!  yes,  *  La  Pucelle!  '  cried  the  man  in  black. 
**  What  a  masterpiece,  monsieur !  What  an  admirable 
piece  of  work !  I  know  but  one  book  that  can  be 
compared  with  it." 

"What  is  that?" 

"*  Justine,'  by  Monsieur  de  Sade.     *  Do  you  know 

•  Justine  '  1 " 


AKSlfcXE.  275 

**No,  monsieur.^ 

"  And  the  Marquis  de  Sade]  " 

"No  better." 

"  You  see,  monsieur  "  continued  the  doctor  enthu- 
siastically, "  Justine  is  the  most  immoral  book 
imaginable.  It  is  Crebillon  fils  naked.  It  is  wonder- 
ful.    I  attended  a  girl  who  read  it." 

"  And  did  she  die  like  your  old  man  ?  '* 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  but  she  died  very  happy." 

And  the  doctor's  eyes  snapped  at  the  reminiscence. 

The  signal  was  given  for  the  second  act.  Hoffmann 
was  not  sorry,  for  his  neighbor  terrified  him. 

**  Ah  !  "  said  the  doctor,  resuming  his  seat  with  a 
smile  of  satisfaction,  "now  we  shall  see  Arsene." 

"Whois  ArseneT' 

"  Don't  you  know  her?  " 

"  No,  monsieur. " 

"  The  devil !  Don't  you  know  anything  at  all,  young 
man  ?  Arsene  is  Arsene,  that 's  the  whole  story. 
Besides  you  will  soon  see  her." 

And  before  the  orchestra  played  a  note  the  doctor 
began  to  hum  the  introduction  to  the  second  act. 

The  curtain  rose. 

The  stage  represented  a  bower  of  flowers  and  greenery 
through  which  flowed  a  stream  from  a  spring  at  the 
foot  of  a  cliff. 

Hoffmann  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  Most  as- 
suredly ,  what  he  saw  and  heard  was  not  powerful  enough 
to  divert  his  mind  from  the  painful  thoughts  and  ghastly 
memory  that  had  led  him  thither. 

"What  difference  would  it  have  made,"  he  thought, 
recurring  suddenly  to  the  impressions  of  the  day,  "  what 
difference  under  heaven  would  it  have  made,  if  they 
had  let  that  wretched  woman  live  ?    What  harm  would 


276   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

it  have  done  if  that  heart  had  continued  to  beat,  that 
mouth  to  breathe  1  What  misfortune  would  have  hap- 
pened? Why  so  suddenly  put  a  stop  to  it  all?  By 
what  right  do  they  arrest  life  in  its  prime  ?  She  would 
be  at  home  among  all  these  women,  whereas  at  this 
moment  her  poor  body,  the  body  that  was  beloved  by  a 
king,  is  lying  in  the  mud  of  a  cemetery,  headless,  with- 
out flowers,  without  a  cross  to  mark  her  grave.  My 
God,  how  she  shrieked!  how  she  shrieked!  and  then 
all  of  a  sudden  —  " 

Again  he  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  What  am  I  doing  here  1  "  he  said  to  himself.  "  Ah  I 
I  will  go  away." 

And  perhaps  he  was  really  on  the  point  of  going 
away,  when,  as  he  raised  his  head,  he  saw  on  the  stage 
a  danseuse  who  did  not  appear  in  the  first  act,  and 
whom  the  whole  audience  were  watching  as  she  danced, 
spellbound  and  breathless. 

"  Oh !  how  beautiful  that  woman  is !  "  cried  Hoff- 
mann, loud  enough  for  his  neighbors  and  the  danseuse 
herself  to  hear  him. 

The  woman  who  had  called  forth  that  sudden  admira- 
tion looked  down  at  the  young  man  who  had  involun- 
tarily uttered  the  exclamation,  and  Hoffmann  thought 
that  she  thanked  him  with  a  glance. 

He  blushed  and  started  as  if  he  had  received  an 
electric  shock. 

Arsene,  for  Ars^ne  it  was,  —  that  is  to  say,  the  dan- 
seuse whose  name  the  little  old  man  had  mentioned,  — 
was  really  a  beautiful  creature,  and  her  beauty  had  none 
of  the  characteristics  of  ordinary,  traditional  beauty. 

She  was  tall,  admirably  built,  and  of  a  transparent 
pallor  under  the  rouge  with  which  her  cheeks  were 
covered.     Her  feet   were   very   small,   and   when   she 


AESfeNE.  277 

alighted  on  the  stage  you  would  have  said  that  her  toes 
rested  on  a  cloud,  for  there  was  not  the  slightest  sound. 
Her  figure  was  so  slight,  so  flexible,  that  no  snake  could 
have  twisted  itself  about  as  she  did.  Every  time  that 
she  straightened  herself  up  and  leaned  backward,  you 
would  have  thought  that  her  corsets  would  burst,  and 
the  vigor  of  her  dancing  and  the  assured  poise  of  her 
body  enabled  one  to  divine  that  she  was  perfectly  well 
aware  of  her  flawless  beauty,  and  that  she  possessed  an 
ardent  nature  which,  like  Messalina's  of  old,  might 
sometimes  be  fatigued  but  never  surfeited.  She  did  not 
smile  as  dancers  commonly  smile ;  her  ruddy  lips  almost 
never  parted ;  not  that  they  concealed  ugly  teeth ,  oh ! 
no,  for  when  she  bestowed  a  smile  upon  Hofiinann  at 
the  moment  when  he  so  artlessly  expressed  his  admira- 
tion aloud,  our  poet  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  double  row 
of  pearls,  so  white  and  regular,  that  it  seemed  that  she 
must  conceal  them  behind  her  lips  so  that  the  air  should 
not  mar  them.  In  her  hair,  which  was  black  and  glossy , 
with  a  bluish  sheen,  were  entwined  large  acanthus 
leaves  and  bunches  of  grapes,  whose  shadow  played 
upon  her  bare  shoulders.  Her  eyes  were  large  and 
clear  and  brilliant,  so  brilliant  that  they  lighted  up 
everything  about  her,  and  if  she  had  danced  in  the 
darkness,  she  would  have  illumined  the  place  where  she 
danced.  Another  circumstance  that  added  to  the  origi- 
nality of  her  appearance  was  that,  without  any  apparent 
reason,  she  wore  in  her  role  of  nymph,  —  for  she  was 
acting  or  rather  dancing  a  nymph,  —  she  wore,  we  say, 
a  narrow  black  velvet  necklace  fastened  by  a  clasp,  or 
at  all  events  by  an  object  which  seemed  to  be  of  the 
shape  of  a  clasp,  and  which,  being  made  of  diamonds, 
cast  a  dazzling  gleam. 

The  doctor  was  gazing  at  the  woman  with  all  his  eyes, 


278   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

and  his  soul  —  such  soul  as  he  might  have  —  seemed  to 
hang  upon  her  movements.  It  was  very  plain  that,  as 
long  as  she  danced,  he  did  not  breathe. 

Thereupon  Hoflfmann  noticed  a  curious  fact.  Whether 
she  moved  to  right  or  left,  backward  or  forward,  Arsene's 
eyes  never  swerved  from  the  line  of  the  doctor's  eyes, 
and  there  was  a  visible  correlation  between  their 
glances.  Furthermore  Hoffmann  distinctly  saw  the  rays 
cast  by  the  clasp  of  Arsene's  neckband  and  those  cast  by 
the  doctor's  death's  head  meet  half-way  between  them, 
collide  and  rebound,  myriads  of  white,  red,  and  golden 
sparks  following  the  collision. 

"Will  you  lend  me  your  opera-glass,  monsieur?" 
said  Hoffmann,  breathing  hard  and  not  turning  his  head, 
for  it  was  impossible  for  him,  too,  to  take  his  eyes  from 
Arsene. 

The  doctor  put  out  his  hand  toward  Hoffmann  with- 
out making  the  slightest  movement  of  the  head,  so  that 
their  hands  sought  each  other  for  some  moments  in  space 
before  they  met. 

Hoffmann  seized  the  opera-glass  at  last  and  glued  his 
eyes  to  it. 

"  It  is  strange,"  he  muttered. 

"  What  is  strange  1  "  demanded  the  doctor. 

"Nothing,  nothing,"  replied  Hoffmann,  who  desired 
to  give  his  whole  attention  to  what  he  saw.  In  truth, 
what  he  saw  was  strange. 

The  opera-glass  brought  everything  so  close  to  his 
eyes  that  Hoffmann  put  out  his  hand  two  or  three  times, 
thinking  that  he  could  grasp  Arsene,  who  no  longer 
seemed  to  be  at  the  end  of  the  glass  in  which  her  image 
was  reflected,  but  directly  between  the  two  barrels  of 
the  glass.  Thus  our  German  lost  no  detail  of  the 
dancer's  beauty,  and  her  glances,  so  penetrating  even  at 


AEStNE.  279 

a  distance,  surrounded  his  brow  with  a  circle  of  flame 
and  made  the  blood  boil  in  the  veins  at  his  temples. 
His  heart  made  a  terrible  uproar  in  his  breast. 

"Who  is  that  woman?  "  he  asked  in  a  faint  voice, 
without  taking  the  glass  from  his  eyes,  and  without 
moving  a  muscle. 

"It  is  Ars^ne,  as  I  told  you  before,"  replied  the 
doctor,  whose  lips  alone  seemed  alive,  and  whose  staring 
eyes  were  riveted  on  the  dancer. 

"  She  has  a  lover,  of  course  1  " 

"Yes." 

"Whom  she  loves?" 

"So  they  say." 

"Is  he  rich?" 

"  Very  rich." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  Look  at  the  lower  proscenium  box  at  your  left. " 

"  I  can't  turn  my  head." 

"Make  an  effort." 

Hoffmann  made  an  effort,  so  painful  that  it  extorted 
a  cry  from  him,  as  if  the  chords  in  his  neck  had  turned 
to  marble  and  had  broken  at  that  moment. 

He  looked  at  the  box  mentioned  by  the  doctor.  In 
it  there  was  but  one  man,  but  that  man,  crouching  like 
a  lion  upon  the  velvet  rail,  seemed  to  fill  it  completely. 

He  was  a  man  of  thirty-two  or  thirty-three  years, 
with  a  face  seamed  by  passion.  One  would  have  said 
that  a  volcanic  eruption  rather  than  the  smallpox  had 
hollowed  out  the  deep  valley  that  crossed  and  recrossed 
on  that  upheaved  flesh.  His  eyes  were  naturally  small, 
but  they  were  opened  to  an  unnatural  extent  by  internal 
convulsions.  Sometimes  they  were  empty  and  lifeless 
as  an  extinct  crater;  sometimes  they  shot  flames  like  a 
crater  in  full  eruption.     He  did  not  applaud  by  clap- 


280      THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE  VELVET   NECKLACE. 

ping  his  hands,  but  by  striking  the  railing,  and  he 
seemed  to  shake  the  building  with  every  blow. 

"  Great  heaven  !  "  said  Hoffmann,  "  is  that  a  man  1  " 

"Yes,  yes,  it's  a  man,"  replied  the  little  man  in 
black.  "  Yes,  it 's  a  man  and  a  good  deal  of  a  man 
too." 

"What's  his  name?" 

"  Don't  you  know  him?  " 

"  Why,  no,  I  arrived  only  yesterday." 

"Well,  that  isDanton." 

"  Danton!  "  exclaimed  Hoffmann  with  a  sudden  start. 
"  Oho  !  and  he  is  Arsene's  lover?  " 

"  He  is  her  lover. " 

"  And  he  loves  her,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Madly.     He  is  jealous  to  ferocity." 

But,  interesting  as  the  sight  of  Danton  was,  Hoffmann 
had  already  turned  his  eyes  back  to  Ars^ne,  whose 
silent  dance  was  a  weird  thing  to  see. 

"  One  more  question ,  monsieur. " 

"Say  on." 

"  What  is  the  shape  of  the  clasp  that  holds  her 
necklace  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  guillotine. " 

"  A  guillotine  !  " 

"  Yes.  They  make  lovely  ones  now,  and  all  our 
fashionable  women  wear  at  least  one.  Danton  gave 
Arsene  the  one  she  wears." 

"A  guillotine,  a  guillotine  at  the  neck  of  a  ballet- 
dancer!"  repeated  Hoffmann,  who  felt  that  his  brain 
was  in  a  whirl.     "  A  guillotine,  why  ?  " 

And  our  German,  who  might  well  have  been  taken 
for  a  madman,  stretched  oiit  his  arms  before  him  as  if  to 
seize  something;  for,  by  a  strange  optical  delusion,  the 
distance  between  Arsene  and  himself  steadily  diminished , 


arsI:ne.  281 

and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  hear  the  hot  breath- 
ing of  that  chest,  whose  bosoms,  half  uncovered,  rose 
and  fell  as  if  under  the  embrace  of  pleasure.  Hoffmann 
was  in  that  state  of  excitement  in  which  one  feels  as  if 
he  were  breathing  fire,  and  fears  lest  his  emotions  rend 
his  body. 

"  Enough !  enough  !  "  he  said. 

But  the  dance  continued,  and  the  hallucination  was 
so  complete  that  Hoffmann's  mind,  dwelling  upon  the 
two  strongest  impressions  of  the  day,  confused  the  stage 
before  him  with  Place  de  la  Revolution,  and  sometimes 
he  fancied  that  he  saw  Madame  du  Barry's  headless 
body  dancing  in  Arsene's  place,  and  sometimes  that 
Arsene  came  dancing  to  the  foot  of  the  giiillotine  and 
into  the  executioner's  hands. 

In  the  young  man's  excited  imagination  there  was  a 
medley  of  flowers  and  blood,  of  dancing  and  the  death- 
agony,  of  life  and  death. 

But  over  and  above  it  all  was  the  magnetic  attraction 
that  drew  him  toward  the  young  woman.  Every  time 
that  those  two  slender  legs  passed  before  his  eyes,  every 
time  that  those  filmy  skirts  rose  a  little  higher,  a 
shudder  ran  through  his  whole  frame,  his  lips  became 
dry,  his  breath  parched  and  hot,  and  desire  seized  upon 
him  as  it  seizes  upon  a  man  of  twenty. 

In  that  condition  of  affairs  Hoffmann  had  but  one 
refuge,  —  Antonia's  portrait,  the  locket  that  he  wore 
upon  his  heart;  to  confront  this  sensual  love  with  a 
pure  and  holy  love,  to  appeal  to  chaste  memories  in 
face  of  this  potent  reality. 

He  seized  the  portrait  and  put  it  to  his  lips;  but  he 
had  no  sooner  made  the  movement  than  he  heard  the 
shrill ,  sneering  laugh  of  his  neighbor  who  was  looking 
at  him  with  a  mocking  air. 


282   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

"  Let  me  go  out,"  he  cried.  "  Let  me  go  out.  I  can 
remain  here  no  longer  !  " 

Like  a  madman  he  left  the  orchestra,  treading  on  the 
feet  and  brushing  against  the  legs  of  the  tranquil  specta- 
tors, who  cursed  and  swore  at  the  idiot  who  had  the 
strange  whim  of  going  out  in  the  middle  of  a  ballet. 


SECOND   PERFOKMANCE   OF   JUDGMENT   OF   PARIS.    283 


XI. 


THE     SECOND     PERFORMANCE     OF     THE     JUDGMENT    OV 
PARIS. 

But  Hoffmann's  impulse  did  not  carry  him  very  far. 
He   stopped   at   the  corner  of  Kue  Saint-Martin. 

He  was  gasping  for  breath;  his  forehead  was  bathed 
in  perspiration. 

He  passed  his  left  hand  across  his  forehead,  placed  his 
right  hand  on  his  breast,  and  drew  a  long  hreath. 

At  that  moment  some  one  touched  his  shoulder.  He 
jumped. 

"  Pardieu  !  it  is  himself!  "  said  a  voice. 

He  turned  and  uttered  an  exclamation- 
It  was  his  friend  Zacharias  Werner. 

The  two  young  men  threw  themselves  into  each 
other's   arms. 

Then  these  two  questions  crossed  each  other :  — 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  " 

"  Where  are  you  going  1  " 

"I  arrived  yesterday,"  said  Hoffmann.  "I  saw 
Madame  du  Barry  guillotined,  and  I  came  to  the  Opera 
for  distraction." 

"  I  arrived  six  months  ago.  For  the  last  five  months 
I  have  seen  twenty  to  twenty-five  persons  guillotined 
every  day,  and  I  am  going  to  play  cards  for  distraction. " 

"  Aha !  " 

"  Will  you  come  with  me  1  " 

"No,  thanks." 


284      THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   VELVET   NECKLACE. 

"You  are  making  a  mistake,  for  I  am  in  a  lucky 
vein.  With  your  usual  good  luck,  you  would  make 
your  fortune.  You  must  have  been  horribly  bored  at 
the  Opera,  accustomed  as  you  are  to  real  music.  Come 
with  me,  and  I  '11  take  you  where  you  can  hear  some." 
"Music?" 

"Yes,  the  music  of  gold;  and,  in  addition  to  that, 
all  forms  of  pleasure  are  combined  where  I  am  going: 
charming  women,  a  delicious  supper,  and  terrific 
gambling!  " 

"Thanks,    my    friend,     it's     impossible!     I    have 
promised;  more  than  that,  I  have  sworn." 
«  To  whom?" 
«  Antonia." 

"  So  you  have  seen  her  1  " 
"  I  love  her,  my  friend,  I  adore  her. " 
"Ah!  I  understand,   that   is  what  delayed  you  so; 
and  you  swore  to  her  ?  " 

"  I  swore  to  her  not  to  gamble,  and  —  '* 
Hoffmann  hesitated. 
"And  what  else?" 

"  And  to  remain  true  to  her,"  he  faltered. 
"  Then  you  must  n't  come  to  113." 
"What  is  113?" 

"  It 's  the  house  I  mentioned  just  now.  I  have  n't 
taken  any  oath  myself,  so  I  am  ofif.  Farewell, 
Theodor." 

"Farewell,  Zacharias." 

And  Werner  hurried  away  while  Hoffmann  remained 
nailed  to  his  place. 

When  Werner  was  a  hundred  yards  away  Hoffmann 
remembered  that  he  had  forgotten  to  ask  his  address, 
and  that  the  only  address  he  had  given  him  was  that  of 
the  gambling-house. 


SECOND   PERFORMANCE   OF   JUDGMENT   OF  PARIS.     285 

But  that  address  was  written  in  Hoffmann's  mind  as 
it  was  over  the  door  of  the  fatal  house  itself,  in  letters 
of  flame ! 

Meanwhile  what  had  taken  place  had  allayed 
Hoffmann's  remorse  to  some  extent.  Human  nature  is 
thus  constituted,  always  indulgent  to  itself,  inasmuch 
as  its  indulgence  is  pure  selfishness. 

He  had  sacrificed  the  thirst  for  gambling  to  Antonia, 
and  he  thought  that  he  had  kept  his  oath,  forgetting 
that  it  was  because  he  was  all  ready  to  break  the  most 
important  part  of  that  oath,  that  he  was  standing  at  the 
corner  of  the  boulevard  and  Rue  Saint-Martin  as  if  he 
were  nailed  there. 

But,  as  I  have  said,  his  resistance  in  the  case  of 
Werner  had  made  him  indulgent  in  the  matter  of  Arsene. 
He  determined,  therefore,  to  adopt  a  middle  course, 
and,  instead  of  returning  to  the  theatre,  —  a  step  to 
which  the  demon  of  temptation  urged  him  with  all  his 
strength,  —  to  wait  at  the  stage  door  and  see  her  come 
out. 

Hoffmann  was  too  well  acquainted  with  the  topography 
of  theatres  not  to  find  the  stage  door  very  soon.  He 
discovered,  on  Rue  de  Bondy,  a  long  passage-way  very 
dimly  lighted,  damp  and  dirty,  through  which  men  in 
shabby  garments  passed  like  ghosts,  and  he  knew  at 
once  that  that  was  the  door  which  gave  ingress  and 
egress  to  the  poor  creatures  whom  red  and  white  and 
blue  paint,  gauze  and  silk  and  spangles,  transformed 
into  gods  and  goddesses. 

The  moments  passed.  Snow  was  falling,  but  Hoffmann 
was  so  excited  by  the  strange  apparition  he  had  wit- 
nessed, in  which  there  was  a  touch  of  the  supernatural, 
that  he  did  not  feel  the  sensation  of  cold  that  seemed 
to  afflict  the  passers-by.     Vainly   did  he  condense  in 


286   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

vapor  that  was  almost  tangible  the  breath  that  issued 
from  his  mouth.  His  hands  were  none  the  less  burning 
hot  and  his  brow  moist  with  perspiration.  Leaning 
against  the  wall,  with  his  eyes  riveted  on  the  corri- 
dor, he  stood  perfectly  motionless,  so  that  the  snow, 
which  continued  to  fall  more  heavily,  slowly  covered 
him  as  with  a  shroud,  and  gradually  transformed  the 
student  in  his  German  cap  and  overcoat  into  a  marble 
statue. 

At  last  those  who  were  first  at  liberty  to  depart  began 
to  emerge  from  the  narrow  passage,  then  the  machinists, 
then  all  the  nameless  crew  who  live  upon  the  theatre, 
then  the  male  artists,  who  require  less  time  for  dressing 
than  the  women,  then  the  women,  and  at  last  the  fair 
danseuse,  whom  Hoffmann  recognized  not  by  her  lovely 
face  alone,  but  by  that  undulatory  motion  of  the  hips 
which  was  peculiar  to  her,  and  by  the  narrow  velvet 
ribbon  at  her  neck,  upon  which  sparkled  the  strange 
jewel  made  fashionable  by  the  Terror. 

The  instant  that  Arsene  appeared  in  the  doorway,  and 
before  Hoffmann  had  time  to  stir,  a  carriage  drove  up 
rapidly,  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and  the  girl  jumped 
in  as  lightly  as  if  she  were  still  pirouetting  on  the 
stage.  A  form  appeared  through  the  window,  and 
Hoffmann  thought  that  he  recognized  the  man  of  the 
proscenium  box ;  that  form  received  the  beautiful  nymph 
in  its  arms;  then,  without  a  word  of  direction  to  the 
coachman,  the  carriage  drove  away  at  a  gallop. 

All  this  that  we  have  described  in  eighteen  or  twenty 
lines  took  place  as  rapidly  as  the  lightning  flashes. 

Hoffmann  uttered  a  sort  of  shriek  as  he  saw  the  car- 
riage drive  away,  stepped  out  from  the  wall  like  a  statue 
leaving  its  niche,  and  shaking  off  the  snow  with  which 
he  was  covered,  darted  in  pursuit  of  the  carriage. 


SECOND   PERFORMANCE   OF   JUDGMENT   OF   PARIS.     287 

But  it  was  drawn  by  two  powerful  horses  of  such 
speed  that  it  was  impossible  for  the  young  man,  how- 
ever swift  his  reckless  pace,  to  overtake  them. 

So  long  as  the  carriage  followed  the  boulevard,  all 
went  well.  So  long  as  it  followed  Rue  de  Bourbon- 
Villeneuve,  recently  re -christened  Rue  !Neuve-Egalite, 
all  went  well ;  but  when  it  reached  Place  des  Victoires, 
otherwise  Place  de  la  Victoire  Rationale,  it  turned  to 
the  right  and  vanished  from  Hoffmann's  sight. 

Being  no  longer  sustained  by  the  soimd  of  the  wheels 
or  the  sight  of  the  carriage,  the  young  man's  strength 
failed  him.  He  stopped  for  a  moment  at  the  corner  of 
Rue  Neuve-Eustache ,  and  leaned  against  the  wall  to 
recover  his  breath.  Then,  seeing  and  hearing  nothing, 
he  looked  about,  judging  that  it  was  time  for  him  to 
return  to  his  lodgings. 

It  was  no  simple  matter  for  Hoffmann  to  extricate 
himself  from  the  labyrinth  of  streets  that  form  an 
almost  inextricable  network  from  Pointe  Saint-Eustache 
to  Quai  de  la  Ferraille.  However,  thanks  to  the 
numerous  patrols  circulating  through  the  streets,  thanks 
to  his  satisfactory  passport,  and  thanks  to  the  ready 
proof  afforded  by  the  date  of  the  visa  at  the  barrier  that 
he  had  arrived  only  the  night  before,  he  obtained  from 
the  citizen  militia  such  precise  directions  that  he  suc- 
ceeded in  finding  his  hotel  and  his  little  room,  where 
he  locked  himself  in,  alone  to  all  appearance,  but,  in 
reality,  accompanied  by  a  vivid  memory  of  what  had 
taken  place. 

Erom  that  moment  Hoffmann  was  haunted  by  two 
visions,  one  of  which  gradually  faded  away,  while  the 
other  gradually  became  more  and  more  vivid. 

The  vision  that  faded  away  was  the  pale,  distorted 
face   of  La   du  Barry,  as   she   was   dragged   from   the 


288      THE  WOMAN   WITH  THE  VELVET   NECKLACE. 

Conciergerie  to  the  tumbril  and  from  the  tumbril  to  the 
scaffold. 

The  vision  that  assumed  more  and  more  reality  was 
the  bright  and  smiling  countenance  of  the  lovely  dancer, 
as  she  skipped  from  the  back  of  the  stage  to  the  foot- 
lights and  whirled  from  the  footlights  to  one  side  after 
the  other. 

Hoffmann  did  his  utmost  to  banish  that  vision.  He 
took  his  brushes  from  his  box  and  painted.  He  took 
his  violin  from  its  case  and  jplayed.  He  asked  for  pen 
and  ink  and  wrote  poetry.  But  the  poetry  that  he 
wrote  was  in  praise  of  Arsene.  The  air  that  he  played 
was  the  air  to  which  she  appeared,  and  whose  buoyant 
notes  seemed  to  lift  her  as  if  they  had  had  wings ;  and 
the  sketches  he  made  were  portraits  of  her,  with  the 
same  velvet  necklace,  the  curious  ornament  fastened 
about  Arsene 's  neck  by  such  a  curious  clasp. 

During  all  that  night,  during  all  the  next  day,  during 
all  the  following  night  and  day,  Hoffmann  saw  but 
one  thing  or  rather  two  things :  on  one  side  the  bizarre 
danseuse,  and  on  the  other  side  the  no  less  bizarre 
doctor.  There  was  such  a  close  affinity  between  the 
two  that  Hoffmann  could  not  think  of  one  without  the 
other.  And  so,  during  that  period  of  hallucination,  in 
which  he  saw  Arsene  always  dancing  about  the  stage,  it 
was  not  the  music  of  the  orchestra  that  rang  in  his 
ears,  but  the  doctor's  soft  humming  and  the  gentle 
tapping  of  his  fingers  on  the  ebony  snuffbox ;  and  then , 
from  time  to  time,  a  flash  passed  before  his  eyes,  blind- 
ing him  with  showers  of  sparks.  It  was  the  double 
gleam  cast  by  the  doctor's  snuffbox  and  the  dancer's 
clasp.  It  was  the  sympathetic  attraction  between  the 
diamond  guillotine  and  the  diamond  skull.  It  was  the 
fixed  stare  of  the  doctor's  eyes,  which  seemed  at  his 


SECOND   PERFORMANCE   OF   JUDGMENT   OF   PARIS.    289 

will  to  attract  and  repel  the  fascinating  danseuse,  as  the 
serpent's  eye  attracts  and  repels  the  bird  it  fascinates. 

Twenty  times,  a  hundred  times,  a  thousand  times,  the 
idea  of  going  again  to  the  Opera  came  to  Hoflfmann's 
mind;  but,  until  the  time  came,  he  promised  himself 
that  he  would  not  yield  to  the  temptation.  Moreover, 
he  had  combated  the  temptation  in  every  way,  having 
recourse  to  his  locket  first,  and  then  trying  to  write  to 
Antonia;  but  Antonia's  portrait  seemed  to  have  taken 
on  such  a  sad  expression  that  Hoffmann  closed  the  locket 
almost  as  soon  as  he  opened  it,  and  the  first  lines  of 
every  letter  he  began  were  so  labored  and  embarrassed 
that  he  had  torn  up  ten  letters  before  he  had  written  a 
third  of  the  first  page. 

At  last  the  second  day  passed.  At  last  the  time  for 
opening  the  theatre  approached.  At  last  the  clock 
struck  seven,  and,  at  that  last  summons,  Hoff'mann, 
as  if  carried  away  by  a  power  stronger  than  himself, 
rushed  down  the  stairs  and  darted  away  in  the  direction 
of  Eue  Saint-Martin. 

That  time,  in  less  than  quarter  of  an  hour,  without 
asking  any  one  to  point  out  the  way,  he  arrived  at  the 
door  of  the  Opera  as  if  an  invisible  guide  had  gone 
before  him. 

But,  strange  to  say,  the  door  was  not  surrounded  by 
an  eager  crowd  as  it  was  two  days  before,  either  because 
some  incident  unknown  to  Hoffmann  had  rendered  the 
performance  less  attractive,  or  because  the  audience 
was  already   inside. 

Hoffmann  tossed  his  six  francs  to  the  ticket-seller, 
received  his  ticket,  and  hurried  into  the  hall. 

The  aspect  of  the  place  was  greatly  changed.  In  the 
first  place  it  was  only  half  full;  and  then,  in  place  of 
the  beautiful  women  and  men  of  fashion  he  had  expected 

19 


290   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

to  see,  lie  saw  only  women  in  short  gowns  and  men  in 
short  jackets;  no  jewels,  no  flowers,  no  bare  breasts 
rising  and  falling  in  the  voluptuous  atmosphere  that 
reigns  in  aristocratic  theatres;  round  caps  and  red  caps, 
all  adorned  with  huge  national  cockades;  garments  of 
dark  hue,  and  a  cloud  of  sadness  on  every  face;  and  on 
either  side  a  hideous,  grinning  bust,  one  laughter,  the 
other  sorrow,  —  the  busts  of  Voltaire  and  Marat. 

And  lastly,  the  proscenium  box  at  the  left  was  only  a 
dimly-lighted  hole,  a  dark  and  untenanted  aperture,  — 
the  cavern  still,  but  without  the  lion. 

There  were  two  vacant  seats,  side  by  side,  in  the 
orchestra  stalls.  Hofi'mann  took  one  of  them,  the  same 
he  had  occupied  before.  The  other  was  the  one  the 
doctor  had  occupied,  but,  as  Ave  have  said,  it  was 
vacant. 

The  first  act  was  played  through  without  Hoffmann's 
bestowing  a  thought  upon  the  orchestra  or  the  per- 
formers. He  was  familiar  with  the  orchestra  and  had 
formed  his  opinion  of  it  at  a  first  hearing.  The  actors 
he  cared  but  little  about.  He  had  not  come  to  see 
them;  he  had  come  to  see  Arsene. 

The  curtain  rose  for  the  second  act  and  the  ballet 
began. 

The  young  man's  heart  and  soul  and  mind  were  all 
in  suspense. 

He  was  awaiting  Arsfene's  appearance. 

Suddenly  he  uttered  an  exclamation. 

Arsene  no  longer  took  the  part  of  Plore. 

The  woman  who  appeared  in  the  part  was  a  stranger 
to  him,  a  woman  like  all  other  women. 

All  the  fibres  of  that  throbbing  body  relaxed. 
Hoffmann  sank  back  in  his  chair  with  a  long  sigh  and 
looked  about  him. 


SECOND   PERFORMANCE   OF   JUDGMENT   OF   PARIS.    291 

The  little  man  in  black  was  in  his  seat ;  but  he 
no  longer  wore  his  diamond  buckles,  his  diamond 
rings,  nor  carried  his  sniiffbox  with  the  skull  in 
diamonds. 

His  buckles  were  of  copper,  his  rings  of  silver  gilt, 
his  snuffbox  of  unpolished  silver. 

He  no  longer  hummed ;  he  no  longer  beat  time. 

How  had  he  come  there?  Hoffmann  had  no  idea. 
He  had  neither  seen  him  come  nor  felt  him  pass. 

"  0  monsieur  !  "  he  cried. 

"  Say,  citizen,  my  young  friend,  and  call  me  thee 
and  thou,  if  possible,"  said  the  little  man  in  black,  "  or 
you  will  get  my  head  cut  off  and  your  own  too." 

"  In  God's  name  where  is  she  1  "  asked  Hoffmann. 

"  Ah,  that 's  the  question.  Where  is  she?  It  seems 
that  her  tiger,  who  never  takes  his  eyes  off  her,  noticed 
day  before  yesterday  that  she  exchanged  signs  with  a 
young  man  in  the  orchestra  stalls.  It  seems  that  that 
young  man  ran  after  the  carriage ;  so  that  yesterday  he 
forced  Arsene  to  break  her  engagement,  and  she  is  no 
longer  at  the  theatre." 

"  But  how  did  the  manager  allow  it  ?  " 

"  My  young  friend,  the  manager  is  anxious  to  keep 
his  head  on  his  shoulders,  although  it  's  an  ugly  sort  of 
head;  but  he  says  that  he  is  used  to  it,  and  that  another 
handsomer  one  might  not  graft  readily." 

"  Ah  !  mein  Gott !  that 's  why  the  place  is  so  gloomy  ! '' 
cried  Hoffmann.  "  That  is  why  there  are  no  flowers,  no 
diamonds,  no  jewels !  That  is  why  you  have  n't  your 
diamond  buckles,  your  diamond  rings,  and  your  diamond 
snuffbox !  That  is  why  those  two  horrible  busts  are 
placed  at  the  sides  of  the  stage,  instead  of  the  busts  of 
Apollo  and  Terpsichore  !     Pah  !  " 

"  Hoity-toity !  what 's  that  you  say  1  "  exclaimed  the 


292   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

doctor.  "  Where  did  you  see  such  a  hall  as  you 
describe  1  Where  did  you  see  me  with  diamond  rings 
and  diamond  snuffboxes  1  Where  did  you  see  the  busts 
of  Apollo  and  Terpsichore?  Why,  it 's  two  years  now 
since  flowers  ceased  to  bloom,  since  all  the  diamonds 
were  turned  into  assignats,  and  the  jewels  melted  down 
on  the  altar  of  the  country.  As  for  myself,  thank  God  ! 
I  have  never  had  any  buckles  but  these  copper  ones,  any 
other  rings  than  this  paltry  silver  gilt  affair,  any  other 
snuffTjox  than  this  poor  silver  one.  As  for  the  busts  of 
Apollo  and  Terpsichore,  they  used  to  stand  there  once, 
but  the  friends  of  humanity  broke  the  bust  of  Apollo 
and  replaced  it  by  the  apostle  Voltaire's,  and  the  friends 
of  the  people  shattered  the  bust  of  Terpsichore  and 
replaced  it  by  that  of  the  god  Marat." 

"Oh!"  cried  Hoffmann,  "it  is  impossible.  I  tell 
you  that,  day  before  yesterday,  I  saw  this  hall  perfumed 
with  flowers,  resplendent  with  rich  costumes,  gleaming 
with  diamonds,  and  men  of  fashion  in  the  places  occu- 
pied by  yonder  fishwomen  in  short  gowns  and  yonder 
blackguards  in  carmagnoles.  I  tell  you  that  you  had 
diamond  buckles  to  your  shoes,  diamond  rings  on  your 
ftngers,  a  death's  head  in  diamonds  on  your  snuffbox. 
I  tell  you  —  " 

"  And  I  tell  you,  young  man,"  rejoined  the  little  man 
in  black,  "  that  day  before  yesterday  she  was  here.  I 
tell  you  that  her  presence  illumined  everything.  I  tell 
you  that  her  breath  made  the  roses  bloom,  made  the 
jewels  glisten,  made  your  imaginary  diamonds  sparkle. 
I  tell  you  that  you  love  her,  young  man,  and  that  you 
saw  the  hall  through  the  prism  of  your  love.  Arsfene  is 
no  longer  here;  your  heart  is  dead;  your  eyes  are 
disenchanted.     You  see  swanskin,  cotton,  coarse  cloth, 


SECOND  PERFORMANCE  OF  JUDGMENT  OF  PARIS.     293 

red  caps,  dirty  hands,  and  dishevelled  hair.     In  short 
you  see  the  ■world  as  it  is,  things  as  they  are." 

"  0  my  God !  "  cried  Hoffmann,  letting  his  head  fall 
forward  in  his  hands,  "  is  all  this  true,  and  am  I  really 
so  near  going  mad  1 " 


294     THE  WOMAN   WITH  THE  VELVET  KECKLACE. 


XIL 

THE   WINE-SHOP. 

Hoffmann  did  not  emerge  from  his  lethargy  until  he 
felt  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

He  raised  his  head.  All  the  lights  were  out,  and 
everything  was  dark  around  him.  The  unlighted  theatre 
seemed  to  him  like  the  corpse  of  the  theatre  he  had  seen 
in  full  life.  The  soldier  on  guard  alone  was  walking 
about,  silent  as  the  death  watch;  no  lights,  no  orchestra, 
no  brilliancy,  no  sound,  save  a  single  voice  that  mumbled 
in  his  ear, — 

"  Come,  citizen,  citizen,  what  are  you  doing  here  ? 
You  're  at  the  Opera,  citizen.  People  go  to  sleep  here, 
to  be  sure,  but  not  to  bed." 

Hoffmann  finally  looked  in  the  direction  from  which 
the  voice  came,  and  saw  a  little  old  woman  who  was 
pulling  him  by  his  coat-collar. 

It  was  the  keeper  of  the  orchestra  stalls,  who,  being 
ignorant  of  the  persistent  spectator's  intentions,  did  not 
wish  to  retire  until  she  had  seen  him  go  out. 

Once  wakened  from  his  torpor,   however,  Hoffmann 
made  no  resistance.     He  gave  a  sigh  and  rose,  murmur 
ing  the  word, — 

•*  Arsene ! " 

*  Oh !  yes,  Arsene, "  said  the  little  old  woman, 
"  Arsene !  So  you  are  in  love  with  her  like  everybody 
else,  young  man  1  It 's  a  great  loss  to  the  Op^ra,  espe- 
cially to  us  box-openers." 


THE   WINE-SHOP.  295 

"To  you  box-openers,"  said  Hoffmann,  overjoyed  to 
find  some  one  who  would  talk  with  him  about  the  dancer. 
"  How  is  it  a  loss  to  you  that  Arsene  is  no  longer  at  the 
theatre  ? " 

"  Dame  !  that  's  easily  explained.  In  the  first  place, 
whenever  she  danced  she  filled  the  house,  and  then  there 
was  a  big  demand  for  stools  and  chairs  and  little  benches, 
—  at  the  Opera  you  have  to  pay  for  everything.  People 
paid  extra  for  the  stools  and  chairs  and  little  benches, 
and  those  were  our  small  profits.  I  say  small  profits, " 
added  the  old  woman  slyly,  "  because  there  were  large 
profits  beside,  citizen,  you  understand.'* 

"Large  profits?" 

"Yes." 

And  the  old  woman  winked. 

"  What  were  the  large  profits  ?  tell  me,  my  good 
woman. " 

"  The  large  profits  came  from  those  who  asked  questions 
about  her,  wanted  to  know  her  address,  and  sent  notes  to 
her.  There  's  a  price  for  everything,  you  understand ;  so 
much  for  answering  questions,  so  much  for  the  address,  so 
much  for  the  note.  We  did  quite  a  little  business,  in 
fact,  and  earned  an  honest  living." 

The  old  woman  heaved  a  sigh  which  might  be  com- 
pared, not  unfavorably,  to  the  one  emitted  by  Hoffmann 
at  the  beginning  of  the  dialogue  we  have  reported. 

"  Aha  !  "  said  Hoffmann,  "  so  you  used  to  answer  ques- 
tions about  her,  to  tell  her  address,  and  deliver  notes  to 
her,  did  you  1     Do  you  still  do  it  ?  " 

"  Alas  !  monsieur,  any  information  I  could  give  you 
would  be  useless  to  you  now.  No  one  knows  Arsene's 
address,  and  any  note  you  might  give  me  for  her  would 
be  wasted.  If  you  want  any  other,  Madame  Vestris, 
Mademoiselle  Bigottini,  Mademoiselle  —  " 


296      THE   WOMAN   WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

"Thanks,  my  good  woman,  thanks.  I  don't  care  to 
know  anything  about  anybody  except  Mademoiselle 
Arsfene.  Take  this,"  said  Hoffmann,  taking  three 
francs  from  his  pocket,  "  for  your  trouble  in  waking  me." 

He  left  the  old  woman  and  walked  slowly  out  to  the 
boulevard,  intending  to  follow  the  same  road  he  had  fol- 
lowed two  nights  before,  the  instinct  that  had  guided 
him  thither  early  m  the  evening  having  deserted  him. 

His  feelings,  however,  were  very  different,  and  his 
gait  bore  witness  to  the  difference  in  his  feelings. 

On  the  other  occasion,  his  gait  was  that  of  a  man  who 
has  seen  Hope  pass  by,  and  who  runs  after  her,  not  paus- 
ing to  reflect  that  God  has  given  her  her  long  azure  wings 
so  that  man  may  never  overtake  her.  His  mouth  was 
open,  and  his  breath  came  in  gasps;  his  head  was  erect, 
and  his  arms  outstretched.  Now,  on  the  contrary,  he 
walked  slowly,  like  the  man  who,  after  a  vain  pursuit  of 
Hope,  has  lost  sight  of  her ;  his  mouth  was  tightly  closed, 
his  head  bent,  his  arms  hanging  by  his  sides.  The  other 
time  it  had  taken  him  hardly  five  minutes  to  go  from 
Porte  Saint-Martin  to  Rue  Montraartre ;  this  time  it  took 
him  more  than  an  hour,  and  still  another  hour  to  go  from 
Rue  Montmartre  to  his  hotel;  for  in  the  state  of  dejec- 
tion into  which  he  had  fallen,  it  mattered  little  to  him 
whether  he  returned  home  early  or  late  or  not  at  all. 

It  is  said  that  there  is  a  special  Providence  for  drunk- 
ards and  lovers ;  that  Providence,  doubtless,  watched  over 
Hoffmann.  It  helped  him  to  avoid  the  patrols;  it  helped 
him  to  find  the  quays,  then  the  bridges,  and  then  his 
hotel,  where  he  appeared,  to  the  great  scandal  of  his 
landlady,  at  half-past  one  in  the  morning. 

Meanwhile,  through  all  his  dejection,  one  little  golden 
ray  danced  about  in  Hoffmann's  imagination  like  a  firefly 
in  the  darkness.     The  doctor, — assuming  that  the  doctor 


THE  WINE-SHOP.  297 

really  existed,  and  was  not  a  mere  creature  of  his  imagi- 
nation, a  delusion  of  his  mind, —  the  doctor  had  told  him 
that  Arsene  had  been  taken  away  from  the  theatre  by 
her  lover,  because  that  lover  was  jealous  of  a  young  man 
in  the  orchestra  stalls,  with  whom  Arsene  had  exchanged 
a  too  tender  glance. 

The  doctor  had  also  said  that  the  thing  that  had  stirred 
the  tyrant's  jealousy  to  its  highest  pitch  was  that  that 
same  young  man  had  lain  in  ambush  at  the  stage  door, 
and  had  run  like  a  madman  behind  the  carriage.  Now, 
the  young  man  in  the  orchestra  stalls  who  had  exchanged 
passionate  glances  with  Arsene  was  himself,  Hoffmann; 
the  young  man  who  had  lain  in  ambush  at  the  stage  door 
was  himself;  and,  lastly,  the  young  man  who  had  run 
desperately  behind  the  carriage,  that  young  man  likewise 
was  himself,  Hoffmann.  Arsene  must  have  noticed  him, 
therefore,  as  she  was  paying  the  penalty  of  her  momen- 
tary distraction ;  therefore,  Arsene  was  suffering  for  him. 
He  had  entered  the  lovely  dancer's  life  through  the  door 
of  suffering;  but  he  had  entered  it,  that  was  the  main 
point;  it  was  for  him  to  maintain  his  footing  there.  But 
how,  by  what  means,  through  what  channel  could  he 
correspond  with  Arsene,  tell  her  who  and  what  he  was, 
and  that  he  loved  herl  It  would  have  been  no  small 
task  for  a  full-blooded  Parisian  to  find  the  fair  Arsene  in 
the  wilderness  of  that  immense  city.  It  was  an  impossi- 
ble task  for  Hoffmann,  who  had  been  there  only  three 
days  and  had  great  difficulty  in  finding  himself. 

And  so  Hoffmann  did  not  even  take  the  trouble  to 
look  for  her;  he  felt  that  chance  alone  could  help  him. 
'Every  second  day  he  looked  at  the  advertisements  of  the 
Opera,  and  every  second  day  he  was  grieved  to  see  that 
Paris  was  to  deliver  his  judgment  in  the  absence  of  one 
who  was  much  more  worthy  of  the  apple  than  Venus. 


298      THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   VELVET   NECKLACE. 

At  other  times  he  did  not  think  of  going  to  the  Opera. 

For  an  instant  he  had  an  idea  of  going  to  the  Conven- 
tion, or  to  the  Cordeliers,  to  dog  Danton's  footsteps,  and 
by  watching  him  day  and  night  to  guess  where  he  had 
hidden  the  lovely  dancer. 

He  actually  went  to  the  Convention  and  to  the  Corde- 
liers, but  Danton  was  not  at  either  place;  for  seven  or 
eight  days  he  had  not  been  seen  at  either.  Weary  of  the 
battle  he  had  fought  for  two  years  past,  vanquished  by 
ennui  rather  than  by  the  superiority  of  his  foes,  Danton 
seemed  to  have  withdrawn  from  the  political  arena. 

Danton  was  said  to  be  at  his  country  estate.  Where 
was  his  country  estate?  No  one  knew;  some  said  at 
Keuil,  others  at  Auteuil. 

Danton  was  as  hard  to  find  as  Arsene. 

One  would  think  perhaps  that  Arsene's  absence  would 
have  led  Hoffmann's  thoughts  back  to  Antonia;  but, 
strange  to  say,  it  did  nothing  of  the  sort.  In  vain  did 
Hoffmann  put  forth  every  effort  to  bring  his  mind  back 
to  the  poor  child :  for  an  instant,  by  the  force  of  his  will, 
all  the  powers  of  his  memory  would  be  concentrated 
upon  Master  Gottlieb's  studio;  but,  at  the  end  of  that 
instant,  the  scores  heaped  upon  tables  and  pianos.  Master 
Gottlieb  stamping  at  his  desk,  Antonia  lying  on  her 
couch,  all  disappeared,  to  give  place  to  a  huge,  brilliantly- 
lighted  frame,  in  which,  at  first,  shadows  moved  to  and 
fro;  then  those  shadows  became  bodies,  the  bodies 
assumed  mythological  forms,  and  finally  all  those  mytho- 
logical forms,  all  those  heroes,  nymphs,  gods,  and  demi- 
gods disappeared,  to  be  succeeded  by  a  single  goddess,  the 
goddess  of  gardens,  the  enchanting  Flore,  that  is  to  say, 
the  divine  Arsene,  the  woman  with  the  velvet  necklace 
and  diamond  clasp.  Thereupon  Hoffmann  would  fall,  not 
into  a  reverie   but  into  a  trance  from  which  he   could 


THE   WINE-SHOP.  299 

rouse  himself  only  by  plunging  into  real  life,  by  elbowing 
the  passers-by  in  the  street,  by  rushing  about  in  the 
crowd  and,  the  uproar. 

And  so  when  this  hallucination  that  preyed  upon  Hoff- 
mann became  too  vivid,  he  would  go  out,  walk  along  the 
quay,  cross  Pont-Neuf,  and  never  pause  until  he  reached 
the  corner  of  Rue  de  la  Monnaie.  There  he  had  found  a 
wine-shop  which  was  the  rendezvous  of  the  hardest 
smokers  in  the  capital.  There  Hoffmann  could  fancy 
himself  in  some  English  tavern,  in  some  Dutch  music- 
hall,  or  some  German  beer-garden,  for  the  pipe-smoke 
made  the  atmosphere  so  thick  that  none  but  a  smoker 
of  the  first  rank  could  breathe  it. 

Once  inside  the  Frateimite,  Hoffmann  would  seat  him- 
self at  a  small  table  in  the  darkest  corner,  call  for  a  bottle 
of  beer  from  the  brewery  of  Citizen  Santerre,  —  who  had 
recently  resigned  his  commission  as  general  of  tlie  Paris 
National  Guard  in  favor  of  Citizen  Henriot,  — load  to 
the  brim  the  huge  pipe  with  which  we  are  already 
acquainted,  and  envelop  himself  within  a  few  moments 
in  a  cloud  of  smoke  as  dense  as  that  in  which  lovely 
Venus  enveloped  her  son  ^neas  whenever  that  loving 
mother  deemed  it  expedient  to  rescue  her  beloved  child 
from  the  wrath  of  his  enemies. 

Eight  or  ten  days  had  passed  since  Hoffmann's  adven- 
ture at  the  Opera  and  the  disappearance  of  the  beautiful 
danseuse ;  it  was  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  Hoffmann 
had  been  sitting  in  his  wine-shop  about  half  an  hour,  do- 
ing his  best,  with  all  the  strength  of  his  lungs,  to  sur- 
round himself  with  the  circle  of  dense  smoke  which 
separated  him  from  his  neighbors,  when  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  distinguished  something  like  a  human  figure 
through  the  vapor;  that  he  heard,  above  all  the  noises  of 
the  place,  the  humming  and  tapping  of  the  little  man  in 


300      THE   WOMAN   WITH  THE   VELVET   NECKLACE. 

black;  furthermore,  it  seemed  to  him  that,  in  the  midst 
of  the  smoke,  there  was  a  luminous  point  from  which 
sparks  were  flying.  He  opened  his  eyes,  which  were 
half-closed  in  a  pleasant  drowsiness,  raised  the  lids  with 
difficulty,  and  saw,  upon  a  stool  facing  him,  his  neighbor 
at  the  Op^ra;  and  he  recognized  him  the  more  readily 
because  the  eccentric  doctor  had,  or  seemed  to  have,  his 
diamond  buckles  on  his  shoes,  his  diamond  rings  on  his 
fingers,  and  the  snuflfbox  with  the  death's  head. 

"  The  devil!  "  said  Hoffmann,  "  I  am  going  mad  again." 

And  he  promptly  closed  his  eyes. 

But  the  more  tightly  his  eyes  were  closed,  the  more 
distinctly  Hoffmann  heard  the  low  humming  accompani- 
ment and  the  drumming  with  the  fingers ;  and  it  was  so 
distinct  that  Hoffmann  realized  that  there  must  be  a 
foundation  of  reality  for  it  all,  and  that  the  only  question 
was  how  much  was  real. 

He  opened  one  eye,  then  the  other;  the  little  man  in 
black  was  still  in  the  same  place. 

"  Good  morning,  young  man, "  he  said  to  Hoffmann. 
"  You  were  asleep,  I  think ;  take  a  pinch,  it  will  rouse 
you." 

He  opened  his  snuffbox  and  offered  it  to  the  young 
man,  who  mechanically  put  out  his  hand,  took  a  pinch  of 
the  snuff  and  inhaled  it. 

On  the  instant  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  a  bright  light 
streamed  into  his  mind. 

"  Ah !  is  it  you,  dear  doctor  ?  "  he  cried ;  "  how  glad  I 
am  to  see  you !  " 

"  If  you  are  so  glad  to  see  me, "  rejoined  the  doctor, 
*  why  have  n't  you  looked  for  me  ?  " 

"  As  if  I  knew  your  address." 

"  Oh,  that 's  a  trifling  difficulty.  They  would  have 
given  it  to  you  at  the  nearest  cemetery," 


THE  WINE-SHOP.  301 

"But  I  don't  know  your  name." 

"  The  doctor  with  the  death's  head;  everybody  knows 
me  by  that  name.  Then  there  is  one  place  where  you 
are  sure  of  finding  me." 

"Where  is  that?" 

"  At  the  Opera.  I  am  physician  to  the  Op^ra.  You 
know  that,   for  you  have  seen  me  there  twice." 

"  Oh !  the  Opera, "  said  Hoffmann  with  a  sigh,  and  a 
shake  of  the  head. 

"  Yes ;  don't  you  go  any  more  1  " 

"No,  I  don't  go  any  more." 

"  Since  Arsene  ceased  to  take  the  part  of  Flore  1  " 

"  You  have  said  it ;  and  so  long  as  she  stays  away,  I 
shall  not  go." 

"  You  love  her,  young  man,  you  love  her. " 

"  I  am  not  certain  whether  the  disease  I  am  suffering 
with  is  called  love,  but  I  do  know  that,  if  I  don't  see  her 
again,  I  shall  die  of  not  seeing  her,  or  go  mad." 

"  Peste !  you  must  n't  go  mad  !  you  must  n't  die  ! 
There  are  few  remedies  for  madness  and  none  at  all  for 
death." 

"What  must  I  do  then?" 

"  Dame  I  you  must  see  her  again. " 

"  What  do  you  say  —  see  her  again  ? " 

"To  be  sure!" 

"  Do  you  know  any  way  % " 

"  Perhaps." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Wait  a  moment." 

And  the  doctor  seemed  lost  in  thought,  winking  his 
eyes  and  drumming  on  his  snuffbox. 

After  a  moment  he  opened  his  eyes  and  said,  holding 
his  fingers  in  the  air  over  the  box,— 

"  You  are  a  painter,  you  told  me  ? " 


302      THE   WOMAN  WITH   THE   VELVET   NECKLACE. 

"  Yes,  painter,  musician,  and  poet. " 

"  We  need  only  painting  for  the  moment." 

"  Very  good ! " 

"  Arsene  has  told  me  to  find  a  painter  for  her." 

"  What  to  do  ?  " 

"  Why  do  people  generally  want  painters  1  pardieu ! 
to  paint  her  portrait." 

"  Arsene's  portrait !  "  cried  Hoffmann,  springing  to  his 
feet ;  "  oh !  I  am  ready !  I  am  ready !  " 

"Hush!  remember  that  I  am  a  serious-minded  man." 

"  You  are  my  preserver !  "  cried  Hoffmann,  throwing 
his  arms  around  the  little  man's  neck. 

"  Youth,  youth ! "  muttered  the  latter,  accompanying 
the  word  with  the  same  sneering  laugh  that  his  death's 
head  would  have  laughed,  if  it  had  been  of  life-size. 

"  Come!  come!  "  said  Hoffmann. 

"  But  you  must  have  a  box  of  colors,  brushes,  canvas." 

"  I  have  all  those  at  home ;  come !  " 

"Very  good,"  said  the  doctor. 

And  they  left  the  wine-shop  together. 


THE  POKTKAIT.  303 


XIII. 

THE  PORTRAIT. 

As  they  left  the  wine-shop  Hoffmann  made  a  gesture  to 
call  a  cab ;  hut  the  doctor  struck  his  thin  hands  together, 
and  at  that  sound,  which  resembled  the  sound  that  a 
skeleton's  hands  would  have  made,  a  carriage  lined 
with  black,  drawn  by  two  black  horses,  and  driven  by  a 
coachman  dressed  in  black,  drove  up.  Where  was  it 
standing?  Where  did  it  come  from?  It  would  have 
been  as  difficult  for  Hoffmann  to  say,  as  it  would  have 
been  for  Cinderella  to  say  where  the  chariot  came  from 
in  which  she  drove  to  Prince  Mirifiore's  ball. 

A  little  groom,  with  a  black  skin  as  Avell  as  black 
clothes,  opened  the  door.  Hoffmann  and  the  doctor 
entered,  seated  themselves  side  by  side,  and  the  carriage 
at  once  rolled  noiselessly  away  toward  Hoffmann's 
lodgings. 

When  they  reached  the  door  Hoffmann  hesitated 
about  going  up  to  his  room.  He  was  afraid  that,  as 
soon  as  his  back  was  turned,  carriage,  horses,  doctor,  and 
servants  would  disappear  as  they  had  appeared.  But 
for  what  purpose  could  doctor,  carriage,  horses,  and 
servants  have  gone  out  of  their  way  to  take  him, 
Hoffmann,  from  Rue  de  la  Monnaie  to  Quai  aux  Fleurs? 
None  at  all. 

Reassured  by  that  simple  application  of  the  principles 
of  logic,  Hoffmann  alighted  from  the  carriage,  entered 
the  house,  ran  hastily  upstairs,  rushed  into  his  room, 


304   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

seized  his  palette,  brushes,  and  box  of  colors,  selected 
the  largest  of  his  canvases,  and  descended  as  rapidly  as 
he  had  ascended. 

The  carriage  was  still  at  the  door. 

Brushes,  palette,  and  box  of  colors  were  bestowed 
inside  the  carriage.  The  canvas  was  intrusted  to  the 
groom. 

Then  the  carriage  rolled  away  as  swiftly  and  silently 
as  before. 

Ten  minutes  later  it  stopped  in  front  of  a  delightful' 
little  house  on  Rue  de  Hanovre,  number  15. 

Hoffmann  made  a  note  of  the  street  and  number,  so 
that,  in  case  of  need,  he  might  be  able  to  return  thither 
without  the  doctor's  help. 

The  door  opened.  The  doctor  evidently  was  known , 
for  the  concierge  did  not  «ven  ask  him  where  he  was 
going.  Hoffmann,  with  his  brushes,  his  box  of  colors, 
his  palette,  and  his  canvas,  followed  the  doctor  and 
entered  the  house. 

They  went  up  to  the  first  floor  and  entered  a  reception- 
room  which  might  have  been  taken  for  the  vestibule  of 
the  poet's  house  at  Pompeii. 

The  reader  will  remember  that  the  Greek  style  was 
fashionable  at  this  time.  Arsfene's  reception-room  was 
frescoed  and  decorated  with  bronze  candelabra  and 
statues. 

From  the  reception-room  Hoffmann  and  the  doctor 
entered  the  salon. 

The  salon  was  Greek  like  the  reception-room,  hung 
with  Sedan  cloth  at  seventy  francs  the  ell.  The  carpet 
alone  cost  six  thousand  francs.  The  doctor  called 
Hoffmann's  attention  to  the  carpet,  which  represented 
the  battle  of  Arbela,  copied  from  the  famous  mosaic  at 
Pompeii. 


T^HE  PORTRAIT.  305 

Hoffmann,  dazzled  by  such  unheard-of  magnificence, 
could  not  understand  that  such  carpets  were  made  to 
walk  upon. 

From  the  salon  they  entered  the  boudoir,  which  was 
hung  with  cashmere.  At  the  end  of  the  room  was  a 
low  bed,  also  used  as  a  couch,  like  that  upon  which 
Monsieur  Gu^rin  afterwards  painted  Dido  listening  to 
the  adventures  of  JEneas.  There  Arsene  had  given 
orders  for  them  to  wait. 

"Now,  young  man,"  said  the  doctor,  "here  you  are 
in  the  house,  and  it  is  for  you  to  conduct  yourself  in  a 
becoming  manner.  It  goes  without  saying  that  if  the 
titular  lover  should  surprise  you  here  you  would  be  a 
dead  man." 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Hoffmann,  "  let  me  see  her  again,  just 
let  me  see  her  again,  and  —  " 

The  words  died  upon  his  lips.  He  stood  with  staring 
eyes,  arms  extended,  and  heaving  breast. 

A  door  concealed  in  the  wainscoting  had  opened,  and 
Arsene  appeared  from  behind  a  revolving  mirror,  a 
veritable  divinity  of  the  temple  in  which  she  deigned 
to  appear  to  her  adorer. 

Her  costume  was  the  costume  of  Aspasia  in  all  its 
olden  magnificence,  with  her  pearls  in  her  hair,  her 
gold-embroidered,  purple  cloak,  her  long  white  dress, 
caught  in  at  the  waist  by  a  simple  girdle  of  pearls,  rings 
on  her  feet  and  hands,  and,  with  it  all,  that  strange 
ornament  which  seemed  inseparable  from  her  person, 
the  velvet  necklace,  hardly  four  lines  in  width,  and 
fastened  by  its  lugubrious  diamond-clasp. 

"Ah!  citizen,  are  you  the  one  who  is  to  paint  my 
portrait  ?  " 

"Yes,"  stammered  Hoffmann.  "Yes,  madame,  and 
the  doctor  has  kindly  consented  to  be  my  sponsor." 

20 


SOB      THE  WOMAN   WITH   THE   VELVET  NECKLACE, 

He  looked  about  as  if  to  call  upon  the  doctor  to  sup- 
port his  statement,  but  the  doctor  had  disappeared. 

"  What !  "  he  cried,  sadly  embarrassed. 

"  What  are  you  looking  for  ?  What  do  you  want, 
citizen  ?  " 

"Why,  madame,  I  am  looking  for,  I  want  —  I  want 
the  doctor,  the  person  who  brought  me  here." 

"  What  do  you  need  of  him,"  said  Arsene,  "  so  long 
as  you  are  here  ?  " 

"  But  the  doctor,  the  doctor  1  "  said  Hoffmann. 

"Nonsense!"  exclaimed  Arsene,  testily,  "do  you 
propose  to  waste  time  looking  for  him  1  The  doctor  is 
attending  to  his  business ;  let  us  attend  to  ours. " 

"I  am  at  your  service,  madame,"  said  Hoffmann, 
trembling  from  head  to  foot, 

"  So  you  agree  to  paint  my  portrait  1  " 

"  I  am  the  most  fortunate  man  in  the  world  to  have 
been  selected  for  such  an  honor;  but  I  have  only  one 
fear." 

■  "  Bah !  you  are  going  to  play  the  modest  man.  If 
you  don't  succeed  I  shall  try  somebody  else,  Ife  is 
determined  to  have  a  portrait  of  me,  I  saw  that  you 
looked  at  me  like  a  man  who  was  likely  to  keep  my 
face  in  his  mind,  and  I  gave  you  the  preference," 

"  Thanks,  thanks  a  hundred  times  !  "  cried  Hoffmann, 
devouring  Arsene  with  his  eyes,  "  Oh !  yes,  yes, 
indeed  I  have  kept  your  face  in  my  mind.  Here,  here, 
here  !  " 

And  he  placed  his  hand  upon  his  heart. 

Suddenly  he  staggered  and  turned  pale, 

"  What 's  the  matter  ?  "  Arsene  inquired  in  an  off- 
hand way. 

"Nothing,**  replied  Hoffmann,  "nothing;  let  us 
Iwgin," 


THE   PORTRAIT.  307 

When  he  placed  his  hand  on  his  heart  he  fah 
Antonia's  locket  between  his  breast  and  his  shirt. 

"  Let  us  begin,"  echoed  Ars^ne.  "  That 's  very  easy 
to  say.  In  the  first  place  this  is  n't  the  costume  that 
he  wants  me  to  be  painted  in." 

That  word  he,  which  she  had  used  twice,  pierced 
Hoffmann's  heart  like  one  of  the  golden  pins  which 
secured  the  modern  Aspasia's  head-dress. 

"  How  does  he  want  you  to  be  painted  ?  "  asked 
Hoffmann  with  visible  bitterness. 

"As  Erigone." 

"  Excellent !  the  head-dress  of  vine  leaves  will  become 
you  wonderfully." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  Arsene,  affectedly.  "I 
fancy  that  the  panther's  skin  won't  make  me  very  ugly 
either." 

She  struck  a  bell. 

A  maid  entered. 

"Eucharis,"  said  Arsene,  "bring  the  thyrsus,  the 
vine  leaves,  and  the  tiger's  skin." 

She  drew  out  the  two  or  three  pins  that  kept  her 
hair  in  place,  and,  with  a  shake  of  her  head,  enveloped 
herself  in  billows  of  black  hair  which  fell  in  cascades 
over  her  shoulders,  followed  the  rounded  outline  of  her 
hips,  and  trailed  upon  the  carpet,  a  dense,  wavy  mass. 

Hoffmann  cried  out  in  admiration. 

"  Well !  what  is  it?  "  said  Arsene. 

"  Why,  I  never  have  seen  such  hair  before !  "  cried 
Hoffmann. 

"  He  wants  me  to  make  the  most  of  it,  and  that  is 
why  we  chose  the  costume  of  Erigone,  which  allows 
me  to  wear  my  hair  loose." 

That  time  the  he  and  the  we  dealt  Hoffmann's  heart 
two  blows  instead  of  one. 


308   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

Meanwhile  Mademoiselle  Eucharis  had  brought  the 
grapes,  the  thyrsus,  and  the  tiger's  skin. 

"  Is  that  all  we  need  1  "  queried  Arsene. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  think  so,"  stammered  Hoffmann. 

"Very  good;  leave  us,  and  don't  return  until  I 
ring. " 

Mademoiselle  Eucharis  went  out  and  closed  the  door 
behind  her. 

"Now,  citizen,"  said  Arsene,  "just  help  me  to 
arrange  this  head-dress ;  that 's  your  business.  I  depend 
a  great  deal  on  the  painter's  taste  to  make  me  look  well." 

"  And  you  are  right !  "  cried  Hoffmann.  "  Mein 
Gott !  mein  Gott !  how  lovely  you  will  be  !  " 

He  seized  the  branch  of  vine  leaves  and  twined  it 
around  Arsene 's  head  with  the  deft  art  of  the  painter, 
who  makes  everything  contribute  to  the  general  effect; 
and  then,  shuddering  at  the  first  touch,  he  took  the 
long  perfumed  hair  with  the  ends  of  his  fingers,  inter- 
mingled the  strands  of  glossy  black  with  the  topaz 
grapes  and  the  emerald  and  ruby  leaves  of  the  autumn 
vine;  and,  as  he  had  promised,  under  his  hand,  the 
hand  of  a  poet,  painter,  and  lover,  the  dancer's  beauty 
was  so  enhanced  that,  upon  looking  at  herself  in  the 
mirror,  she  uttered  an  exclamation  of  joy  and  pride. 

"  You  were  right,"  she  said.  "Yes,  I  am  beautiful, 
very  beautiful.     Now,  let  us  go  on." 

"  What  do  you  say  ?  Let  us  go  on  1 "  queried 
Hoffmann. 

"  Why,  what  about  my  Bacchante's  costume  1  " 

Hoffmann  began  to  understand. 

"  Mein  Gott !  "  he  murmured;  "  mein  Gott !  " 

Arsfene  smilingly  unfastened  her  purple  cloak,  until 
it  was  secured  only  by  a  single  pin,  which  she  tried  in 
vain  to  reach. 


THE  PORTRAIT.  309 

"Why  don't  you  help  me?"  she  said  impatiently, 
"  or  must  I  call  Eucharis  1  " 

"No,  no!"  cried  Hoffmann.  He  darted  to  her  side 
and  removed  the  rebellious  pin.  The  cloak  fell  at  the 
beautiful  Greek's  feet. 

"  There  !  "  said  the  young  man,  drawing  a  long  breath. 

"Tell  me,"  said  Arsene,  "do  you  think  the  tiger's 
skin  will  look  well  over  this  long  muslin  dress?  I 
don't  think  it  will,  for  my  part.  Besides,  he  wants  a 
genuine  Bacchante,  not  as  you  see  them  on  the  stage, 
but  as  they  are  in  Carrache's  and  Albano's  pictures." 

"Why,  the  Bacchantes  are  nude  in  Carrache's  and 
Albano's  pictures!  "  cried  Hoffmann. 

"  Well !  that 's  the  way  he  wants  me,  except  for  the 
tiger's  skin  which  you  can  drape  as  you  choose  j  that 's 
your  business." 

As  she  spoke  she  loosened  the  ribbon  at  her  waist 
and  unfastened  the  clasp  at  her  neck,  so  that  the  dress 
slipped  down  the  full  length  of  her  lovely  body,  leav- 
ing it  bare,  as  it  dropped  from  her  shoulders  to  her  feet. 

"  Oh!  "  said  Hoffmann,  falling  on  his  knees,  "  this  is 
no  mortal,  but  a  goddess." 

Arsene  pushed  the  dress  and  the  cloak  away  with  her 
foot.     Then  she  took  up  the  tiger's  skin. 

"  Come,  what  do  we  do  with  this  ?  "  she  said.  "  Pray 
help  me,  citizen  painter,  I  am  not  accustomed  to  dress- 
ing alone.  '* 

The  ingenuous  danseuse  called  it  dressing. 

Hoffmann  drew  near,  walking  unsteadily,  drunken, 
dazzled,  took  the  tiger's  skin,  clasped  its  golden  claws 
around  the  Bacchante's  shoulders,  bade  her  sit,  or 
rather  recline  on  the  couch  of  red  cashmere,  where  she 
seemed  a  statue  of  Parian  marble  save  for  the  rise  and 
fall  of  her  bosom  and  the  smile  upon  her  lips. 


310   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

"  Am  I  in  a  good  position  ?  "  she  asked,  putting  her 
arm  under  her  head,  and  taking  a  bunch  of  grapes  which 
she  seemed  to  press  against  her  lips. 

"Oh!  yes,  lovely,  lovely,  lovely!"  whispered 
Hoffmann.  And  the  lover  carried  the  day  over  the 
painter.  He  fell  on  his  knees,  and  with  a  movement 
swift  as  thought  seized  Arsene's  hand  and  covered  it 
with  kisses. 

She  withdrew  her  hand,  more  in  surprise  than  wrath. 

"  Well !  what  in  heaven's  name  are  you  doing?  "  she 
asked  the  young  man. 

The  question  was  asked  in  such  a  calm,  cool  tone, 
that  Hoffmann  staggered  back,  pressing  his  hands 
against  his  temples. 

"Nothing,  nothing,"  he  faltered.  "Forgive  me,  I 
am  going  mad." 

"  I  should  think  you  were,"  said  she. 

"Tell  me,"  cried  Hoffmann,  "why  did  you  send  for 
me?     Tell  me,  tell  me!  " 

"  Why ,  to  have  you  paint  my  portrait,  and  for  noth- 
ing else. " 

"Ah!  yes,"  said  Hoffmann.  "Yes,  you  are  right; 
to  paint  your  portrait,  nothing  else." 

Making  a  mighty  effort  to  recover  his  self-possession, 
Hoffmann  placed  his  canvas  on  his  easel,  took  his 
palette  and  his  brushes,  and  began  to  sketch  the  intoxi- 
cating picture  that  he  had  before  his  eyes. 

But  he  had  presumed  too  far  upon  his  strength.  When 
he  saw  his  voluptuous  model  posing,  not  simply  in  her 
glowing  reality,  but  reflected  a  thousand  times  by  the 
innumerable  mirrors  in  the  boudoir;  when  he  found 
himself  in  the  presence  of  ten  Bacchantes  instead  of  one 
Erigone;  when  he  saw  reflected  in  each  mirror  that 
intoxicating  smile,  the  undulations  of  that  breast  which 


THE   PORTRAIT.  311 

the  tiger's  golden  skin  only  half  covered,  he  felt  that  he 
was  called  upon  to  exert  more  than  human  self-control, 
and,  dashing  down  his  palette  and  brushes,  he  rushed  at 
the  beautiful  Bacchante  and  imprinted  on  her  shoulder 
a  kiss  in  which  there  was  as  much  frenzied  passion  as 
love. 

But  at  that  very  instant  the  door  was  thrown  open, 
and  the  nymph  Eucharis  rushed  into  the  boudoir, 
crying,— 

"He!  he!  he!" 

Instantly,  before  he  had  time  to  collect  his  thoughts, 
Hoffmann  was  pushed  out  of  the  boudoir  by  the  two 
women,  and  the  door  closed  behind  him;  and,  veritably 
mad  with  love  and  rage  and  jealousy,  he  staggered 
through  the  salon,  slid  down  the  stair-rail  rather  than 
descended  the  stairs,  and  found  himself,  with  no  idea 
how  he  came  there,  in  the  street,  having  left  in  Arsene's 
boudoir  his  brushes,  his  box  of  colors,  and  his  palette, 
which  were  nothing,  and  his  hat,  which  might  prove  to 
be  much. 


312   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 


XIV. 

THE  TEMPTER. 

What  rendered  Hoffmann's  situation  even  more  lament- 
able was  that  his  grief  was  coupled  with  humiliation; 
that  it  was  perfectly  evident  that  he  had  not  been  sum- 
moned by  Arsene  as  a  man  whom  she  had  noticed  at  the 
Opera,  but  purely  and  simply  as  a  painter,  a  portrait- 
painting  machine,  a  mirror  that  reflects  the  bodies 
placed  before  it.  Hence  Arsene's  unmoved  manner  of 
removing  all  her  garments,  one  after  another,  in  his 
presence;  hence  her  amazement  when  he  kissed  her 
hand;  hence  her  wrath  when,  in  the  midst  of  the  burn- 
ing kiss  with  which  he  had  reddened  her  shoulder,  he 
told  her  that  he  loved  her. 

Indeed,  was  it  not  stark  madness  for  him,  a  simple 
German  student,  who  had  come  to  Paris  with  three  or 
four  hundred  thalers,  a  sum  hardly  sufficient  to  pay  for 
the  carpet  in  her  reception-room ,  —  was  it  not  madness 
for  him  to  aspire  to  that  fashionable  danseuse,  the 
mistress  of  the  extravagant  and  voluptuous  Danton? 
That  woman  was  not  to  be  moved  by  ringing  words  but 
by  the  ring  of  gold.  Her  favored  lover  was  not  the  one 
who  loved  her  best,  but  the  one  who  paid  the  highest 
price.  Let  Hoffmann  have  more  money  than  Danton 
and  Danton  would  be  shown  the  door  when  Hoffmann 
arrived. 

Meanwhile  it  was  an  undeniable  fact  that  the  one 
who  had  been  shown  the  door  .was  not  Danton  but 
Hoffmann. 


THE   TEMPTER.  313 

Hoffmann  returned  to  his  little  room,  humbler  and 
more  melancholy  than  he  had  ever  been. 

So  long  as  he  had  not  been  face  to  face  with  Arsene, 
he  had  had  some  hopej  but  the  things  that  he  had  seen, 
—  her  utter  indifference  to  him  as  a  man,  the  luxurious 
surroundings  in  which  he  had  found  her,  and  which 
were  not  only  her  physical  life  but  her  moral  life,  — 
all  those  things  made  it  impossible  for  him  even  to  hope 
for  her  unless  a  vast,  unimaginable  sum  of  money  should 
fall  into  his  hands,  that  is  to  say,  unless  a  miracle 
should  happen. 

So  he  returned  to  his  lodgings,  utterly  crushed.  His 
strange  passion  for  Arsene,  a  passion  that  was  entirely 
physical  and  magnetic,  and  into  which  the  heart  did 
not  enter,  had  manifested  itself  thus  far  in  fierce, 
feverish  excitement. 

Now,  that  excitement  was  changed  to  profound 
prostration. 

A  single  hope  remained,  —  to  find  the  doctor  again 
and  ask  his  opinion  as  to  what  he  should  do,  although 
there  was  something  extraordinary,  fantastic,  super- 
natural about  the  man,  which  made  him  feel  that, 
whenever  he  Avas  with  him,  he  left  real  life  behind  and 
entered  into  a  sort  of  dream  where  neither  his  will 
power  nor  his  freedom  of  action  accompanied  him,  and 
where  he  became  the  plaything  of  a  world  that  existed 
for  him  but  not  for  other  people. 

So  he  returned  to  the  wine-shop  on  Rue  de  la 
Monnaie  at  the  usual  hour  on  the  following  day ;  tut  to 
no  purpose  did  he  envelop  himself  in  a  cloud  of  smoke. 
No  face  resembling  the  doctor's  appeared  to  him  therein. 
To  no  purpose  did  he  close  his  eyes.  When  he  opened 
them  no  one  was  sitting  on  the  stool  he  had  placed  on 
the  other  side  of  the  table. 


314   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

A  week  passed  thus. 

On  the  eighth  day  Hoffmann,  having  lost  patience, 
left  the  wine-shop  an  hour  earlier  than  usual,  that  is  to 
say,  about  four  in  the  afternoon,  and  walked  mechani- 
cally toward  Rue  Saint-Honore  by  Saint-Germain- 
I'Auxerrois  and  the  Louvre. 

He  had  hardly  reached  that  thoroughfare  when  he 
noticed  a  great  commotion  in  the  direction  of  the  ceme- 
tery des  Innocents ,  and  that  it  seemed  to  be  approaching 
Place  du  Palais-Royal.  He  remembered  what  had 
happened  on  the  day  following  his  arrival  in  Paris,  and 
recognized  the  same  sounds,  the  same  uproar  that  had 
made  a  deep  impression  on  him  at  the  time  of  Madame 
du  Barry's  execution.  It  was,  in  fact,  the  tumbrils 
from  the  Conciergerie,  on  their  way  to  Place  de  la 
Revolution,  laden  with  the  condemned  of  the  day. 

We  know  Hoffmann's  horror  of  the  spectacle;  and  so, 
as  the  tumbrils  rapidly  advanced  he  darted  into  a  cafe 
on  the  corner  of  Rue  de  la  Loi ,  turned  his  back  to  the 
street,  closed  his  eyes,  and  put  his  hands  over  his  ears, 
for  Madame  du  Barry's  shrieks  were  still  echoing  in  the 
depths  of  his  heart.  Then,  wlien  he  supposed  that  the 
tumbrils  had  passed,  he  turned,  and  to  his  unbounded 
amazement  saw  his  friend  Zacharias  Werner  stepping 
down  from  a  chair  which  he  had  mounted  in  order  to 
see  better. 

"  Werner !  "  cried  Hoffmann,  rushing  up  to  him, 
"Werner!" 

"  Hallo,  is  it  you  1  "  said  the  poet.  "  Where  were 
you  ?  " 

"  I  was  here,  but  I  had  my  hands  over  my  ears  so  as 
not  to  hear  the  shrieks  of  those  poor  wretches,  and  my 
eyes  closed  so  as  not  to  see   them." 

"Really,  my  dear  friend,  you  make  a  mistake,"  said 


THE  TEMPTEB.  315 

Werner,  "  for  you  are  a  painter  !  And  what  you  would 
have  seen  would  have  furnished  you  with  a  subject  for 
a  fine  picture.  There  was  a  woman  in  the  third  tum- 
bril, a  wonderful  creature ,  with  such  a  neck  and  shoulders 
and  hair  !  cut  off  behind ,  to  be  sure ,  but  falling  to  the 
ground  on  both  sides." 

"Look  you,"  said  Hoffmann.  "I  saw  the  finest 
picture  that  could  be  seen  of  that  kind.  I  saw  Madame 
du  Barry,  and  I  do  not  need  to  see  any  others.  If  I 
ever  want  to  paint  a  picture,  believe  me,  that  sight  will 
be  enough  for  me;  but  I  don't  propose  to  paint  any 
more  pictures." 

"  Why  not  1  "  queried  Werner. 

"  I  have  conceived  a  perfect  horror  of  painting.*' 

"  Some  fresh  disappointment  1  " 

"  My  dear  Werner,  I  shall  go  mad  if  I  stay  in  Paris." 

"  You  will  go  mad  wherever  you  are,  my  dear 
Hoffmann.  You  might  as  well  be  in  Paris  as  anywhere 
else.  Meanwhile  tell  me  what  it  is  that  is  driving  you 
mad." 

"  Oh  !  my  dear  Werner,  I  am  in  love. " 

"  With  Antonia,  I  know.     So  you  told  me." 

"No,"  said  Hoffmann,  with  a  start.  "No,  that's  a 
different  matter.     I  love  Antonia  !  " 

"  The  devil !  it 's  a  subtle  distinction.  Tell  me 
about  it.     Citizen  official,  some  beer  and  glasses  !  " 

The  two  young  men  filled  their  pipes,  and  seated 
themselves  on  opposite  sides  of  a  table  in  the  darkest 
corner  of  the  cafe. 

There  Hoffmann  told  Werner  all  that  had  happened 
to  him,  from  the  day  that  he  went  to  the  Opera  and  saw 
Ars^ne  dance,  down  to  the  moment  when  the  two  women 
pushed  him  out  of  the  boudoir. 

"  Well  1 "  said  Werner,  when  Hoffmann  had  finished. 


316      THE  WOMAN   WITH  THE   VELVET   NECKLACE. 

"  Well !  "  echoed  Hoffmann,  amazed  that  his  friend 
was  not  as  downcast  as  himself. 

"I  ask  you,"  continued  Werner,  "what  there  is  so 
desperate  in  all  that  1  " 

"Why,  my  dear  fellow,  now  that  I  know  that  the 
woman  can  be  won  only  by  money,  I  have  lost  all  hope." 

"  Why  have  you  lost  all  hope  1  " 

"  Because  I  shall  never  have  five  hundred  louis  to 
throw  at  her  feet. " 

"Why  shouldn't  you  have  them?  For  my  part,  I 
have  had  five  hundred  louis,  yes,  a  thousand,  two 
thousand. " 

"  Where  do  you  suppose  I  am  to  get  them?  Great 
God  !  "  cried  Hoffmann. 

"  Why,  at  the  Eldorado  I  told  you  of,  at  the  source 
of  the  river  Pactolus,  my  dear  fellow,  at  the  gaming- 
table." 

"At  the  gaming-table!  "  exclaimed  Hoffmann  with  a 
shudder.  "  Why,  you  know  that  I  swore  to  Antonia 
that  I  wouldn't  gamble." 

"  Bah  !  "  laughed  Werner.  "  You  also  swore  that  you 
would  be  true  to  her !  " 

Hoffmann  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  pressed  the  locket 
against  his  heart. 

"At  the  gaming-table,  my  friend!"  continued 
Werner.  "  Ah!  that 's  the  bank  for  you !  It  is  n't  like 
the  bank  at  Mannheim  or  Homburg,  that  threatens  to 
break  for  a  few  paltry  thousands.  A  million,  my  boy  ! 
a  million!  stacks  of  gold!  I  believe  that  all  the  legal 
tender  in  France  has  taken  shelter  there.  None  of 
your  wretched  paper  money,  none  of  your  vile,  demone- 
tized assignats,  which  are  worth  only  a  fourth  of  their 
face  value,  but  noble  louis,  noble  double  louis,  noble 
quadruples !     Look ,  do  you  want  to  see  some  ?  " 


THE  TEMPTER.  317 

And  Werner  drew  from  his  pocket  a  handful  of  louis 
and  showed  them  to  Hoffmann.  Their  golden  beams 
flashed  through  the  mirror  of  his  eyes  to  the  inmost 
recesses  of  his  brain. 

"  Oh,  no  !  no  !  never!  "  he  cried,  remembering  at  the 
same  moment  the  old  officer's  prediction  and  Antonia's 
prayer.     "  I  will  never  gamble  !  " 

"  You  are  wrong.  With  such  luck  as  you  have  you 
would  break  the  bank." 

"  And  Antonia !  Antonia !  " 

"  Bah !  my  dear  friend,  who  will  tell  Antonia  that 
you  gambled,  that  you  won  a  million  1  Who  will  tell 
her  that,  with  twenty-five  thousand  francs  you  gratified 
your  fancy  for  the  fair  ballet-dancer?  Believe  me, 
when  you  return  to  Mannheim  with  nine  hundred  and 
seventy-five  thousand,  Antonia  will  never  ask  you 
where  you  got  your  forty-eight  thousand  a  year,  nor 
what  you  did  with  the  other  fifteen  thousand." 

As  he  spoke,  Werner  rose. 

"  Where  are  you  going  1  "  Hoffmann  asked  him. 

"  I  am  going  to  see  a  mistress  of  mine ,  a  lady  at  the 
Com^die-Franqaise,  who  honors  me  with  her  favor,  and 
whom  I  subsidize  with  half  of  my  winnings.  Dame  ! 
I  am  a  poet,  so  I  turn  my  attention  to  a  literary 
theatre.  You  are  a  musician,  and  you  make  your 
choice  at  a  singing  and  dancing  theatre.  Good  luck  at 
play,  my  dear  friend.  My  compliments  to  Mademoiselle 
Arsene.  Don't  forget  the  number  of  the  bank;  it  is 
113.     Farewell." 

"  Ah !  "  muttered  Hoffmann ,  "  you  told  me  that  before, 
and  I  have  n't  forgotten  it." 

He  allowed  his  friend  to  depart,  having  neglected 
again,  as  at  their  first  meeting,  to  ask  him  for  his 
address. 


318   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

But,  although  Werner  had  left  him,  Hoffmann  was 
not  alone.  Every  word  his  friend  uttered  was  visible 
to  him  and  palpable,  so  to  speak.  They  glistened  in 
his  eyes  and  whispered  in  his  ears. 

In  very  truth,  where  could  Hoffmann  go  to  obtain 
gold,  if  not  to  the  golden  spring?  Had  he  not  found 
the  only  possible  means  of  gratifying  an  impossible 
longing?  Ah!  yes,  Werner  had  said  truly.  Had  he 
not  already  been  false  to  a  part  of  his  oath?  What 
mattered  it  then  if  he  should  be  false  to  the  other  part  ? 

And  again,  as  Werner  had  said,  he  might  win  not 
twenty -five  thousand,  not  fifty  thousand,  not  a  hundred 
thousand,  but  a  million  francs.  The  material  horizons 
of  fields,  woods,  and  seas  have  limits.  The  horizon  of 
the  green  cloth  has  none. 

The  demon  of  play  is  like  Satan.  It  has  the  power 
of  carrying  the  gambler  to  the  top  of  the  highest  moun- 
tain on  earth,  and  there  pointing  out  to  him  all  the 
kingdoms  of  the  world. 

And  what  happiness,  what  bliss,  what  pride  would 
be  his  when  he  should  return  to  Arsene,  to  the  same 
boudoir  from  which  he  had  been  thrust  out !  With 
what  supreme  disdain  he  would  crush  that  woman  and 
her  terrible  lover,  when,  for  all  reply  to  the  words, 
"  Why  are  you  here?  "  he,  another  Jupiter,  should  pour 
down  a  shower  of  gold  upon  that  other  Danae ! 

And  all  this  was  no  longer  an  hallucination  of  his 
mind,  a  dream  of  his  imagination,  but  it  was  reality; 
it  was  possible.  The  chances  of  winning  and  losing 
were  even.  Aye,  those  of  winning  were  the  greater, 
for,  as  we  know,  Hofi'mann  was  lucky  at  play. 

Oh!  that  number  113,  that  number  113,  with  its 
glowing  figures,  how  it  beckoned  to  Hoffmann,  how  it 
showed  the  way,  an  infernal  beacon-light,  to  the  abyss 


THE   TEMPTER.  319 

in  whose  depths  the  demon  Vertigo  roars,  writhing  upon 
a  couch  of  gold ! 

HoflFmann  struggled  for  more  than  an  hour  against  the 
fiercest  of  all  passions.  Then  at  the  end  of  that  hour, 
feeling  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  resist  longer, 
he  tossed  a  fifteen-sous  piece  on  the  table,  making  the 
waiter  a  gift  of  the  change,  and  ran  without  stopping 
for  breath  to  Quai  aux  Fleurs,  went  up  to  his  room, 
took  the  three  hundred  thalers  he  still  possessed,  and, 
without  giving  himself  time  for  reflection,  leaped  into 
a  cab,  shouting,  — 

"To  Palais-Halite  I" 


320      THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   VELVET   NECKLACE. 


XV. 

NUMBER   113. 

The  Palais-Royal,  which  was  called  at  that  time  Palais- 
^figalite,  and  which  has  also  been  called  Palais-National,  — 
for,  with  us,  the  first  thing  that  revolutionists  do  is 
change  the  names  of  streets  and  squares,  so  that  they  can 
be  changed  back  again  when  the  revolution  is  at  an  end, 
—  the  Palais-Royal,  we  say,  under  which  name  it  is  most 
familiar  to  us,  was  not  at  that  time  what  it  is  to-day ;  but 
in  the  matter  of  picturesqueness,  and  of  strangeness  too, 
it  was  in  no  wise  inferior,  especially  in  the  evening,  espe- 
cially at  the  hour  when  Hoifmann  arrived  there. 

Its  arrangement  differed  little  from  what  we  see  to- 
day, with  the  exception  that  what  is  now  called  the  Gal- 
erie  d'Orl^ans  was  then  a  double-roofed  gallery,  which 
was  to  give  place  later  to  a  promenade  with  six  rows  of 
Doric  columns;  that  there  were  chestnuts  instead  of  lin- 
dens in  the  garden,  and  that,  where  the  basin  now  is, 
there  was  a  circus,  a  vast  structure  with  walls  of  trellis- 
work,  bordered  with  glass,  and  with  shrubs  and  flowers 
on  the  summit. 

Do  not  imagine  that  that  circus  was  at  all  the  same  as 
the  place  of  amusement  to  which  we  in  our  day  have 
given  the  name.  No,  the  acrobats  and  magicians  who 
performed  their  feats  in  the  Circus  at  the  Palais-Egalit^ 
were  of  a  different  species  from  Monsieur  Price,  who,  a 
few  years  ago,  set  France  agog  and  gave  birth  to  the 
Mazuriers  and  Auriols, 


NUMBER  113.  321 

The  Circus  was  occupied  at  the  time  of  which  we  write 
by  the  "  Friends  of  Truth, "  who  gave  performances  there, 
and  whose  performances  could  be  witnessed  by  any  one 
who  was  a  subscriber  to  the  "  Bouche  de  Fer  "  newspaper. 
With  its  number  for  the  morning  as  a  talisman,  you  were 
admitted  in  the  evening  to  that  abode  of  pleasure,  and 
could  listen  there  to  the  harangues  of  all  the  brethren, 
who  were  associated  together,  so  they  said,  with  the 
laudable  purpose  of  protecting  governors  and  governed,  of 
making  the  laws  impartial,  and  of  going  to  every  corner 
of  the  world  in  search  of  a  friend  of  truth,  whatever  his 
nationality,  whatever  his  color,  whatever  his  opinions; 
and  when  the  truth  was  discovered,  they  would  reveal  it 
to  mankind. 

As  you  see,  there  have  always  been  men  in  France 
who  were  fully  persuaded  that  it  was  their  mission  to 
enlighten  the  masses,  and  that  the  rest  of  mankind  was  a 
horde  of  absurd,   useless  creatures. 

What  has  the  passing  breeze  done  with  the  names  and 
ideas  and  vain  pretensions  of  those  people? 

However  the  Circus  made  a  noise  of  its  own  in  the 
Palais-]&galite  amid  the  general  uproar  there,  and  min- 
gled its  shrill  notes  in  the  grand  concert  tliat  was  per- 
formed every  evening  in  that  garden. 

For  it  should  be  said  that,  in  those  days  of  privation, 
exile,  terror,  and  proscription,  the  Palais-Royal  had 
become  the  great  centre  to  which  the  life  that  was  re- 
pressed all  day  by  political  passions  and  struggles,  resorted 
at  night,  in  search  of  distraction  and  to  do  its  utmost  to 
forget  the  truth  which  the  members  of  the  Cercle  Social 
and  the  stockholders  of  the  Circus  had  set  out  to  find. 
While  all  the  quarters  of  Paris  were  dark  and  deserted ; 
while  the  ominous  patrols,  composed  of  the  jailers  of  to- 
aay  and  the  executioners  of  to-morrow,  prowled  about 
21 


322      THE  WOMAN   WITH  THE   VELVET   NECKLACE. 

like  wild  beasts  in  quest  of  any  sort  of  prey;  while, 
around  the  fireside  of  a  dead  or  outlawed  friend  or  parent, 
those  who  were  left  sadly  exchanged  in  whispers  their 
fears  or  their  sorrows,  the  Palais-Royal  shone  like  the 
god  of  evil.  Its  hundred  and  eighty  arcades  were  bril- 
liantly-lighted, it  displayed  its  trinkets  in  the  jewellers' 
windows,  it  scattered  amid  the  popular  carmagnoles  and 
the  universal  misery  its  abandoned  women,  gleaming  with 
diamonds,  covered  with  white  and  red  paint,  dressed  just 
as  much  as  they  were  compelled  to  be,  in  silk  or  velvet, 
and  exhibiting  their  marvellous  shamelessness  under  the 
trees  and  in  the  galleries.  This  magnificent  prostitution 
was  a  last  withering  satire  upon  the  past,  a  last  insult  to 
the  monarchy. 

To  display  those  creatures  in  their  royal  costumes  was 
to  throw  mud  after  blood  in  the  faces  of  that  court  of 
lovely,  luxury-loving  women,  of  whom  Marie- Antoinette 
was  the  queen,  and  whom  the  revolutionary  whirlwind 
had  swept  from  the  Trianon  to  Place  de  la  Revolution, 
—  as  if  a  drunken  man  should  drag  his  fiancee's  white 
dress  in  the  mire. 

Luxury  was  abandoned  to  the  vilest  prostitutes ;  virtue 
was  fated  to  go  clad  in  rags. 

That  was  one  of  the  truths  discovered  by  the  Cercle 
Social. 

But  the  people  that  had  given  the  world  such  a  violent 
forward  impulsion,  the  Parisian  people,  in  whom,  un- 
luckily, reasoning  always  comes  after  enthusiasm,  —  the 
result  being  that  they  are  never  cool-blooded  enough  to 
remember  the  foolish  things  they  have  done,  —  the 
people,  we  say,  being  poor  and  in  rags,  did  not  altogether 
understand  the  philosophy  of  that  antithesis,  and  it  was 
with  envy,  not  with  contempt,  that  they  rubbed  elbows 
with  those  brothel-queens,  those   ghastly  sovereigns   of 


NUMBEH  113.  323 

vice.  And  when,  their  passions  excited  by  what  they 
saw,  when,  with  their  eyes  on  fire,  they  sought  to  lay 
their  hands  upon  those  bodies  that  belonged  to  the  whole 
world,  they  were  called  upon  for  money,  and,  having 
none,  were  ignominiously  repulsed.  Thus  was  the  great 
principle  of  equality  mocked  at  everywhere,  —  the  great 
principle,  which  was  proclaimed  by  the  axe,  written  in 
blood,  and  which  the  prostitutes  of  the  Palais-Koyal 
were  entitled  to  spit  upon. 

In  days  like  those,  mental  invigoration  reached  such  a 
point  that  such  extraordinary  contrasts  were  necessary  to 
the  reality  of  things.  People  were  dancing  not  on  the 
volcano,  but  in  the  crater  itself,  and  their  lungs,  being 
accustomed  to  an  atmosphere  of  sulphur  and  lava,  were 
no  longer  content  with  the  mild  perfumes  of  other 
days. 

Thus  the  Palais-Royal  reared  its  head  every  evening, 
illuminating  everything  with  its  crown  of  flame,  A 
procurer  in  stone,  it  shouted  over  the  great,  sorrowing 
city :  — 

"  It  is  night,  come !  I  have  everything  within  my 
walls,  fortune  and  love ,  gaming  and  women  !  I  sell 
everything,  even  suicide  and  murder.  Ye  who  have 
eaten  nothing  since  yesterday,  ye  who  suffer,  ye  who 
weep,  come  to  me.  Ye  shall  see  how  rich  we  are;  ye 
shall  see  how  we  laugh !  Have  ye  a  conscience  or  a 
daughter  to  sell?  Come!  your  eyes  shall  be  filled  with 
gold,  your  ears  with  obscenity.  Ye  shall  wade  to  your 
knees  in  vice,  in  corruption,  and  in  oblivion.  Come 
here  to-night,  perhaps  ye  will  be  dead  men  to-morrow." 

That  last  was  the  great  argument.  One  must  live  as 
one  was  likely  to  die,  rapidly. 

And  they  came. 

The  most  frequented   spot  of  all  was  naturally  that 


324      THE  WOMAN   WITH   THE   VELVET   NECKLACE. 

where  there  was  gambling.  That  was  the  place  to 
obtain  the  means  of  enjoying  the  rest. 

And  so,  of  all  those  brilliant  dens,  number  113  was 
the  one  that  cast  the  most  brilliant  light,  with  its  red 
lantern,  the  huge  eye  of  the  Cyclops  called  Palais- 
figalite. 

If  hell  has  a  number,  that  number  should  be  113. 

Ah  !  all  one's  wants  were  anticipated  there. 

On  the  ground-floor  there  was  a  restaurant.  On  the 
first  floor  there  were  the  gambling-rooms.  The  breast 
of  the  building  contained  the  heart,  as  was  quite  natural. 
And  that  was  the  house  to  which  Hoffmann,  Antonia's 
poetic  lover,  was  hurrying  with  all  speed. 

Number  113  was  where  it  is  to-day,  a  few  doors  from 
the  Maison  Corcelet. 

Hoffmann  had  no  sooner  alighted  from  his  carriage 
and  set  his  foot  inside  the  gallery  of  the  palace ,  than  he 
was  accosted  by  the  divinities  of  the  place,  thanks  to 
his  foreign  costume,  which,  in  those  days  as  in  our  own, 
inspired  more  confidence  than  the  national  costume. 

A  country  is  never  so  much  despised  as  by  itself. 

"  Where  is  number  113?  "  Hoffmann  inquired  of  the 
damsel  who  had  taken  his  arm. 

"  Oh  !  that 's  where  you  're  going,"  said  Aspasia,  dis- 
dainfully. "  Well,  my  lad,  it 's  where  you  see  that  red 
lantern.  But  try  to  keep  two  louis  and  remember 
number  115." 

Hoffmann  plunged  into  the  passage-way  pointed  out 
to  him  as  Curtius  plunged  into  the  gulf,  and  a  moment 
later  he  was  in  the  card-room. 

There  was  the  same  noise  as  in  a  public  auction- 
room. 

To  be  sure  many  things  were  sold  there. 

The  rooms  were  resplendent  with  gilding,  chandeliers, 


NUMBER   113.  325 

flowers,  and  women  more  beautiful,  more  richly  dressed, 
and  more  decolletees  than  those  below. 

The  noise  that  dominated  all  the  other  noises  was 
the  chink  of  gold.  It  was  the  heart-beat  of  that 
degraded  multitude. 

Hoffmann  left  at  his  right  the  room  where  trente  et 
quarante  was  in  progress,  and  passed  on  to  the  salon  de 
roulette. 

Around  a  large  green  table  sat  the  players,  all  of 
whom  were  assembled  for  the  same  purpose,  and  no  two 
of  whom  wore  the  same  expression. 

There  were  young  and  old;  there  were  some  whose 
elbows  were  worn  through  by  leaning  on  that  table. 
Among  the  men  there  were  those  who  had  lost  their 
fathers  the  day  before  or  that  morning  or  that  very  even- 
ing, and  whose  thoughts  were  all  absorbed  by  the 
revolving  ball.  In  the  true  gambler  a  single  senti- 
ment continues  to  live,  —  desire;  and  that  sentiment  is 
nourished  and  increases  in  force  at  the  expense  of  all 
others.  Monsieur  de  Bassompierre ,  who  was  told  that 
his  mother  was  dead  as  he  was  about  to  dance  with 
Marie  de  Medici,  and  who  replied,  "  My  mother  will  not 
die  until  I  have  danced,"  —  Monsieur  de  Bassompierre 
was  a  devoted  son  compared  to  a  gambler.  A  gambler 
actually  at  play,  to  whom  such  a  remark  should  be 
made,  would  not  even  answer  as  Monsieur  de  Bassom- 
pierre did:  in  the  first  place,  because  it  would  be  a 
waste  of  time,  and  in  the  second  place,  a  gambler,  if  he 
never  has  a  heart,  ceases  to  have  a  mind  when  he  is 
gambling.  And  when  he  is  not  gambling  it  is  the  same 
thing,  he  is  thinking  about  it. 

The  gambler  has  all  the  virtues  of  his  vice.  He  is 
sober,  he  is  patient,  he  is  indefatigable.  A  gambler 
who  could  abruptly  turn  aside  to  the  profit  of  an  hon 


326   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

orable  passion  or  a  noble  sentiment,  the  incredible  energy 
that  he  places  at  the  disposal  of  his  passion  for  play, 
would  instantly  become  one  of  the  greatest  men  in  the 
world.  Never  did  Caesar,  Hannibal,  or  Napoleon,  even 
when  earnestly  engaged  in  performing  their  greatest 
manoeuvres,  display  a  force  of  will  equal  to  that  of  the 
obscurest  gambler.  Ambition,  love,  passion,  the  heart, 
the  mind,  the  sense  of  hearing,  the  sense  of  smell,  the 
sense  of  touch,  all  the  mainsprings  of  man's  life,  in  fact, 
are  united  upon  a  single  word,  a  single  purpose,  —  gam- 
bling. And  do  not  imagine  that  the  gambler  plays  to 
win.  He  begins  that  way,  but  he  ends  by  gambling  for 
gambling's  sake,  in  order  to  see  the  cards,  to  handle 
gold,  to  feel  the  strange  emotions  that  have  not  their 
like  in  any  of  the  other  passions  of  life,  emotions  which, 
in  the  face  of  gain  or  loss,  —  those  two  poles  from  one 
to  the  other  of  which  the  gambler  flies  with  the  speed 
of  the  wind,  one  of  which  burns  like  fire  and  the  other 
freezes  like  ice,  —  cause  his  heart  to  leap  within  his 
breast  under  the  stimulus  of  desire  or  reality,  as  a  horse 
leaps  under  the  spur;  in  order  to  absorb  like  a  sponge 
all  the  faculties  of  the  mind,  to  confine  them  and  hold 
them  in  check,  and,  when  the  hand  is  played,  to  release 
them  abruptly  only  to  seize  them  again  with  more  force 
than  before. 

The  one  circumstance  that  makes  the  passion  for 
gambling  stronger  than  all  other  passions  is  that,  as  it 
is  never  satisfied,  it  can  never  grow  weary.  It  is  like 
a  mistress  who  always  promises  and  never  gives.  It 
kills,  but  it  does  not  fatigue. 

The  passion  for  gambling  is  the  hysteria  of  mankind. 

To  the  gambler  everything  is  dead,  family,  friends, 
country.  His  horizon  is  limited  by  the  card  and  ball. 
His  country  is  the  chair  he  sits  in,  the  green  cloth  on 


NUMBER   113.  327 

which  he  leans.  If  he  were  condemned  to  the  gridiron 
like  St.  Lawrence,  and  were  allowed  to  gamble  there,  I 
am  prepared  to  wager  that  he  would  not  feel  the  fire, 
that  he  would  not  even  turn  his  head. 

The  gambler  is  a  silent  creature.  Words  can  be  of  no 
service  to  him.  He  plays,  he  wins,  he  loses.  He  is  no 
longer  a  man ;  he  is  a  machine.     Why  should  he  speak  ? 

The  uproar  in  the  card-rooms  did  not  come  from  the 
players,  therefore,  but  from  the  croupiers,  who  raked  in 
the  gold  and  cried  in  nasal  tones,  — 

"  Make  your  bets  !  " 

At  that  moment  Hoffmann  was  no  longer  an  observer. 
His  passion  had  taken  too  full  possession  of  him. 
Otherwise  he  could  have  made  a  whole  series  of  interest- 
ing studies. 

He  glided  rapidly  through  the  spectators  and  reached 
the  edge  of  the  green  cloth.  He  found  himself  between 
a  man  in  a  carmagnole  who  was  standing,  and  an  old 
man  who  was  sitting  down  and  making  calculations  on  a 
piece  of  paper. 

The  old  man,  who  had  spent  his  life  seeking  a  suc- 
cessful combination,  was  spending  his  last  days  in 
playing  it,  and  his  last  louis  in  seeing  it  fail.  The 
successful  combination  is  as  impossible  to  find  as  the 
soul. 

Among  the  heads  of  the  men,  sitting  and  standing, 
appeared  the  heads  of  women  who  were  leaning  on  their 
shoulders,  dabbling  their  hands  in  their  gold,  and  who, 
with  unequalled  dexterity,  found  a  way  to  profit  by  the 
winnings  of  some  and  the  losses  of  others. 

Seeing  the  cups  filled  with  gold  and  the  pyramids  of 
silver,  one  would  have  found  it  hard  to  believe  that  the 
public  destitution  was  so  great  and  that  gold  was  so 
dear. 


328   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

The  man  in  the  carmagnole  tossed  a  bundle  of  papers 
on  a  number. 

"  Fifty  francs,"  he  said. 

"  What 's  that  ?  "  asked  the  croupier,  pulling  in  the 
papers  with  his  rake,  and  taking  them  up  with  the  ends 
of  his  fingers. 

"  Assignats"  the  man  replied. 

"  Have  n't  you  any  other  money  than  that? "  said  the 
croupier. 

"No,  citizen." 

"  Then  you  can  give  somebody  else  your  place. " 

"Why  so?" 

"  Because  we  don't  take  that  stuff." 

"  It 's  government  money." 

"  So  much  the  better  for  the  government  if  it  can  use 
it  I    Wedon't  want  it." 

"  Upon  my  word !  "  rejoined  the  man,  taking  up  his 
assignats,  "  this  is  a  wretched  kind  of  money;  you  can't 
even  lose  it." 

He  walked  away,  crumpling  the  assignats  in  his 
hands. 

"  Make  your  bets  !  "  cried  the  croupier. 

Hoffmann  was  a  gambler,  as  we  know ;  but  this  time  he 
played,  not  for  the  sake  of  playing,  but  for  the  money. 

The  fever  that  consumed  him  kept  his  thoughts  boil 
ing  in  his  mind  like  water  in  a  kettle. 

"  A  hundred  thalers  on  26  !  "  he  cried. 

The  croupier  scrutinized  the  German  money  as  he 
had  scrutinized  the  assignats.  "  Go  and  change  it,"  he 
said  to  Hoffmann.     "  We  take  only  French  money. " 

Hoffmann  ran  downstairs  like  a  madman ,  entered  the 
shop  of  a  money-changer  who  happened  to  be  a  German 
himself,  and  exchanged  his  three  hundred  thalers  for 
French  gold,  that  is  to  say,  for  about  forty  louis. 


NUMBEK   113.  329 

The  wheel  had  turned  three  times  meanwhile. 

"  Fifteen  louis  on  26!  "  he  cried,  rushing  to  the  table, 
and  clinging,  with  the  gambler's  extraordinary  super- 
stition, to  the  number  he  had  chosen  at  first  by  chance, 
simply  because  the  man  with  the  assignats  had  tried  to 
bet  upon  it. 

"  No  more  bets  !  "  cried  the  croupier. 

The  ball  went  on  its  way. 

Hoffmann's  neighbor  picked  up  two  handfuls  of  gold 
and  tossed  them  into  his  hat,  which  he  held  between 
his  legs,  but  the  croupier  raked  in  Hoffmann's  fifteen 
louis  and  many  others. 

Number  16  had  won. 

Hoffmann  felt  the  cold  perspiration  overspread  his 
brow  like  a  net  with  steel  meshes. 

"  Fifteen  louis  on  26  !  "  he  repeated. 

Other  voices  called  out  other  numbers,  and  the  wheel 
turned  once  more. 

On  that  turn  the  bank  won  everything.  The  ball 
rolled  into  the  zero. 

"  Ten  louis  on  26  !  "  muttered  Hoffmann  in  a  choking 
voice;  but,  thinking  better  of  it,  he  said,  "no,  only 
nine,"  and  took  back  one  gold  piece  in  order  to  have 
one  more  chance  to  play,  one  last  hope. 

Number  30  won. 

The  gold  was  swept  from  the  cloth  like  the  waves 
that  beat  high  upon  the  shore,  and  are  swept  back  into 
the  sea. 

Hoffmann,  whose  heart  was  beating  fiercely,  and  who 
saw  through  the  mists  in  his  brain  Arsene's  mocking 
smile  and  Antonia's  sad  features,  —  Hoffmann,  we  say, 
with  trembling  hand ,  placed  his  last  louis  upon  26. 

The  bets  were  made  in  a  moment. 

"  No  more  bets  !  "  cried  the  croupier. 


330      THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   VELVET  NECKLACE. 

HoflEmann  followed  with  a  gleaming  eye  the  rolling 
ball,  as  if  it  were  hie  own  life  that  was  rolling  over  and 
over  before  his  eyes. 

Suddenly  he  threw  himself  back,  hiding  his  face  in 
his  hands. 

Not  only  had  he  lost,  but  he  had  not  a  single  sou 
about  his  person  or  at  his  lodgings. 

A  woman  who  sat  near  by,  and  who  would  have  sold 
herself  for  twenty  francs  a  moment  before,  uttered  a 
fierce  cry  of  joy  and  picked  up  a  handful  of  gold  she  had 
won. 

Hoffmann  would  have  given  ten  years  of  his  life  for 
one  of  that  woman's  louis. 

With  a  movement  swifter  than  thought  he  felt  and 
searched  his  pockets,  as  if  to  banish  all  doubt  as  to  the 
truth. 

His  pockets  were  empty,  but  he  felt  something  round, 
like  a  piece  of  money  against  his  breast,  and  eagerly 
seized  it. 

It  was  Antonia's  locket,  which  he  had  forgotten. 

"  I  am  saved  !  "  he  cried ;  and  he  threw  the  locket  as 
a  stake  upon  number  26. 


THE  LOCKET.  331 


XVI. 

THE  LOCKET. 

The  croupier  took  the  locket  and  examined  it. 

"  Monsieur,"  he  said  to  Hoffmann,  for  they  still  said 
monsieur  at  113,  "monsieur,  go  and  sell  this  if  you 
choose,  and  make  your  bet  in  money;  but,  I  tell  you 
once  more,   we  take  nothing  but  gold  or  silver  coin." 

Hoffmann  took  his  locket  and  left  the  room  without 
uttering  a  syllable. 

During  the  time  that  it  took  him  to  go  down  the 
stairs  many  thoughts,  many  plans,  many  presentiments 
buzzed  around  him ;  but  he  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  all  those 
vague  sounds,  and  went  directly  to  the  same  money- 
changer Avho  had  just  given  him  louis  for  his  thalers. 

The  good  man  was  reading,  lying  back  comfortably 
in  his  leather-covered  arm-chair,  with  his  spectacles 
perched  on  the  end  of  his  nose.  He  was  reading  by  the 
uncertain  light  of  a  low  lamp,  reenforced  by  the  yellow 
glitter  of  the  gold  pieces  in  their  copper  receptacles,  and 
he  was  protected  by  a  lattice  of  fine  iron  wire,  with 
little  green  silk  curtains,  and  a  little  wicket,  only  large 
enough  for  the  hand  to  pass  through,  on  a  level  with 
the  table. 

Hoffmann  had  never  felt  such  an  overpowering  admira- 
tion for  gold. 

He  opened  his  eyes,  marvelling  greatly,  as  if  he  had 
stepped  into  a  sunbeam,  and  yet  he  had  just  seen  more 
gold  on  the  roulette  table  than  he  saw  there ;  but  it  was 
not  the  same  kind  of  gold,  philosophically  speaking. 


332      THE   WOMAN  WITH  THE   VELVET   NECKLACE. 

Between  the  noisy,  swift-moving,  excited  gold  at  num- 
ber 113,  and  the  tranquil,  silent,  serious  gold  at  the 
money-changer's,  there  was  the  same  difference  that 
there  is  between  vapid,  empty-headed  chatterers  and 
men  of  thought  and  meditation.  A  man  can  do  no  good 
with  the  gold  won  at  roulette  or  cards.  It  does  not 
belong  to  him  in  whose  possession  it  is,  but  he  belongs 
to  it.  Coming  from  a  corrupt  source,  it  must  serve  an 
impure  end.  It  has  life  in  it,  but  it  is  a  vicious  life, 
and  it  is  in  haste  to  be  gone  as  it  came.  It  counsels 
naught  but  vice,  and,  when  it  does  do  good,  does  it 
against  its  will.  It  arouses  longings  ten  times,  twenty 
times  greater  than  it  can  satisfy,  and,  when  you  once 
possess  it,  it  seems  to  diminish  in  value.  In  a  word, 
the  money  of  the  gaming-table  always  has  a  fictitious 
value,  depending  upon  whether  one  wins  or  longs  to 
win  or  loses.  Sometimes  a  handful  of  gold  represents 
nothing;  sometimes  a  single  coin  contains  a  man's  life ; 
whereas  the  gold  of  commerce,  the  gold  of  the  money- 
changer, gold  like  that  which  Hoffmann  went  to  his  com- 
patriot to  obtain,  is  always  worth  its  face  value.  It 
leaves  its  copper  nest  only  in  exchange  for  something 
of  equal  or  superior  value  to  itself.  It  does  not  prosti- 
tute itself  by  passing  from  hand  to  hand  like  a  courtesan 
without  shame,  without  preference,  without  love.  It 
has  respect  for  itself.  When  it  has  once  left  the  money- 
changer's hands  it  may  become  corrupted;  it  may  keep 
bad  company,  as  it  may  have  done  before  going  there, 
but  while  it  is  there  it  is  respectable  and  deserving  of 
consideration.  It  is  the  image  of  need  and  not  of 
caprice.  You  earn  it;  you  do  not  win  it.  It  is  not 
tossed  about  like  mere  counters  by  the  croupiers,  but  is 
slowly  and  carefully  counted,  piece  by  piece,  by  the 
broker,  with  all  the  respect  that  is  its  due.     It  is  silent. 


THE  LOCKET.  333 

and  in  that  its  great  eloquence  consists;  and  so 
Hoffmann,  through  whose  imagination  a  comparison  of 
this  sort  flashed  in  a  moment's  time,  began  to  tremble 
lest  the  broker  should  refuse  to  give  him  such  genuine 
gold  for  his  locket.  He  deemed  himself  obliged,  there- 
fpre,  although  it  involved  a  loss  of  valuable  time,  to 
resort  to  periphrases  and  circumlocution  to  arrive  at  his 
goal,  especially  as  he  had  not  come  to  propose  a  business 
transaction  to  the  money-changer,  but  to  ask  a  favor  at 
his  hands. 

"Monsieur,"  he  said,  "I  came  here  a  short  time  ago 
to  exchange  thalers  for  louis." 

"Yes,  monsieur,  I  recognize  you,"  said  the  money- 
changer. 

"  You  are  a  German  ?  " 

"  I  am  from  Heidelberg. " 

"  That  is  where  I  studied." 

"  What  a  beautiful  town!  " 

"It  is,  indeed." 

Meanwhile  Hofi'mann's  blood  was  boiling.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  every  moment  he  gave  to  that  commonplace 
conversation  was  a  year  of  his  life  thrown  away. 

He  continued,  therefore,  with  a  smile, — 

"  I  thought  that  perhaps  yon  would  be  willing,  being 
a  fellow-countryman,  to  do  me  a  favor." 

"  What  is  it  1  "  asked  the  money-changer,  his  face 
clouding  at  the  word.  The  money-changer  is  no  more 
of  a  lender  than  the  ant. 

"  To  loan  me  three  louis  on  this  gold  locket." 

As  he  spoke,  Hoffmann  handed  the  locket  to  the 
broker,  who  put  it  in  his  scales  and  weighed  it. 

"  Would  n't  you  prefer  to  sell  it?  "  he  asked. 

"Oh!  no,"  cried  Hoff'mann;  "it  is  bad  enough  to 
pawn  it.     I  will  even  venture  to  ask  you,  if  you  do  me 


334      THE   WOMAN   WITH  THE  VELVET   NECKLACE. 

this  favor,  to  keep  the  locket  with  the  greatest  care,  for 
I  care  more  for  it  than  for  my  life,  and  I  shall  come 
and  redeem  it  to-morrow.  Nothing  less  serious  than 
my  present  circumstancee  would  induce  me  to  pawn  it. " 

"  Then  I  will  loan  you  three  louis." 

And  the  money-changer,  with  all  the  gravity  that 
such  an  act  seemed  to  him  to  require,  took  three  louis 
and  placed  them  in  front  of  Hoffmann. 

"Oh!  thanks,  thanks  a  thousand  times!"  cried 
Hoffmann,  as  he  pounced  upon  the  three  gold  pieces  and 
disappeared. 

The  money-changer  silently  resumed  his  reading, 
after  placing  the  locket  in  a  corner  of  his  drawer.  It 
had  never  occurred  to  him  to  go  and  venture  his  gold 
against  other  gold  at  113. 

The  gambler  is  so  near  being  a  sacrilegist  that 
Hoffmann,  as  he  tossed  his  first  piece  of  gold  upon 
number  26,  —  for  he  proposed  to  risk  only  one  at  a 
time,  —  pronounced  the  name  of  Antonia. 

While  the  ball  was  rolling  Hoffmann  was  not  excited. 
Something  told  him  that  he  should  win. 

Number  26  came  up. 

Hoffmann,  beaming  with  joy,  gathered  up  thirty-six 
louis. 

The  first  thing  that  he  did  was  to  put  three  of  them 
aside  in  his  watch-pocket,  in  order  to  be  sure  that  he 
could  redeem  his  fiancee's  locket,  for  he  evidently 
owed  his  first  gains  to  her.  He  left  thirty-three  louis 
on  the  same  number,  and  the  same  number  came  up. 
Therefore  he  won  thirty-three  times  thirty -six,  or  eleven 
hundred  and  eighty-eight  louis,  that  is  to  say,  nearly 
twenty-five  thousand  francs. 

Thereupon  Hoffmann  plunged  his  hands  into  that 
solid  Pactolus,  and,  taking  it  up  by  handfuls,  played 


THE   LOCKET.  335 

at  random,  blinded  as  if  by  a  dazzling  light.  At  every 
play  that  he  made,  his  heap  of  winnings  increased,  like 
a  mountain  suddenly  rising  from  the  water. 

He  had  gold  in  his  pockets,  in  his  coat,  in  his  waist- 
coat, in  his  hat,  in  his  hands,  on  the  table,  everywhere. 
Gold  rolled  to  him  from  the  croupier's  hands  like  blood 
from  a  gaping  wound.  He  had  become  the  Jupiter  of 
all  the  Danaes  in  the  room,  and  the  treasurer  of  all  the 
unlucky  players. 

At  last,  when  he  thought  that  he  had  enough,  he 
picked  up  all  the  gold  in  front  of  him  and  fled  in  the 
direction  of  Arsene's  house,  leaving  all  his  fellow- 
gamblers  full  of  admiration  and  envy. 

Tt  was  one  o'clock  in  the  morning;  but  it  mattered 
little  to  him. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  with  such  wealth  he  might 
come  at  any  hour  of  the  night  and  always  be  sure  of  a 
welcome. 

He  gloated  over  the  thought  of  covering  with  all  that 
gold  the  beautiful  body  which  had  unveiled  itself  before 
him,  and  which,  although  it  had  remained  as  cold  as 
marble  to  his  love,  would  awake  to  life  before  his 
wealth,  like  the  statue  modelled  by  Prometheus  when 
he  had  found  its  animating  principle. 

He  proposed  to  go  to  Arsene,  to  empty  his  pockets 
to  the  last  piece,  and  say  to  her,  "Now,  love  me." 
Then,  the  next  day,  he  would  leave  Paris,  in  order  to 
escape,  if  possible,  the  memory  of  that  intense,  feverish 
dream. 

He  knocked  at  Arsene's  door  like  a  master  returning 
to  his  own  house. 

The  door  opened. 

Hoffmann  ran  to  the  stairs. 

"  Who  is  that  1  "  cried  the  concierge's  voice. 


336   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

Hoffmann  did  not  reply. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  citizen  ? "  said  the  same 
voice ;  and  a  ghost,  dressed  as  ghosts  are  at  night,  came 
out  of  the  lodge  and  ran  after  Hoffmann. 

In  those  days  people  were  very  fond  of  knowing  who 
went  out  and  especially  who  came  in. 

"I  am  going  to  Mademoiselle  Arsene's,"  replied 
Hoffmann,  tossing  the  concierge  three  or  four  louis,  for 
which  an  hour  earlier  he  would  have  sold  his  soul. 

That  method  of  expression  was  very  satisfactory  to 
the  official. 

"Mademoiselle  Arsene  is  no  longer  here,  monsieur," 
he  replied,  deeming  it  advisable  to  use  some  other 
word  than  "  citizen  "  when  he  had  to  do  with  so  open- 
handed  a  man.  A  man  who  asks  may  say,  "citizen;  " 
but  a  man  who  receives  can  say  only  "  monsieur." 

"  What !  "  cried  Hoffmann,  "  Arsene  not  here  1  " 

"  No,  monsieur." 

"  You  mean  that  she  has  n't  come  home  this  evening  1 " 

"  I  mean  that  she  won't  come  any  more." 

"  Where  is  she,  then  f  " 

"  I  have  no  idea." 

"  Mein  Gott !  mein  Gott !  "  exclaimed  Hoffmann; 
and  he  took  his  head  in  his  hands  as  if  to  hold  back  his 
reason,  which  was  on  tlie  point  of  escaping  him.  Every- 
thing that  had  happened  to  him  of  late  was  so  extraordi- 
nary that  he  kept  saying  to  himself,  "  There,  now  I  am 
going  mad !  " 

"  Haven't  you  heard  the  news?  "  said  the  concierge. 

*  What  news  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  Danton  has  been  arrested." 

"When?" 

"  Yesterday.  It  was  Monsieur  Eobespierre  who  did 
it.     A  great  man,  Citizen  Eobespierre  !  " 


THE   LOCKET.  337 

«  Well  1 '» 

"  Well,  Mademoiselle  Ars^ne  was  obliged  to  fly;  for, 
as  Danton's  mistress,  she  was  likely  to  be  compromised 
in  the  affair." 

"  True.     But  how  did  she  fly  1  " 

"As  one  flies  when  one  is  afraid  of  having  his  head 
cut  off,  —  straight  before  her. " 

"Thanks,  my  friend,  thanks,"  said  Hoffmann;  and 
he  disappeared,  leaving  a  few  more  gold  pieces  in  the 
concierge's  hand. 

When  he  was  in  the  street,  Hoffmann  asked  himself 
the  question ,  what  was  going  to  become  of  him ,  and  of 
what  use  all  his  gold  was  to  him  now;  for,  as  may  be 
imagined,  the  idea  that  he  could  find  Arsene  never 
occurred  to  him,  any  more  than  the  idea  of  going  home 
and  taking  some  rest. 

So  he  too  began  to  walk  straight  before  him,  making 
the  pavements  of  the  deserted  streets  ring  beneath  his 
heels,  wide  awake,  and  yet  dreaming  a  painful  dream. 

It  was  a  cold  night.  The  trees  were  bare  and 
shivered  in  the  night  wind,  like  sick  men  in  delirium 
wlio  have  left  their  beds,  and  whose  wasted  limbs  are 
shaken  by  fever. 

The  frost  stung  the  faces  of  the  few  nocturnal  passers- 
by,  and  only  at  long  intervals  was  the  darkness  pierced 
by  a  light  in  a  window  of  one  of  the  houses  whose  black 
masses  could  hardly  be  distinguished  from  the  sky. 

But  the  cold  air  had  a  salutary  efi'ect  upon  him.  His 
heart  expanded  gradually  in  that  rapid  walk,  and,  if  we 
may  so  express  ourselves,  his  mental  effervescence  was 
volatilized.  In  a  room  he  would  have  stifled.  And 
then,  perhaps,  if  he  went  on  and  on,  he  might  fall  in 
Avilh  Arsene,  Who  could  say?  Perliaps  when  she  fled 
from  her  house  she  had  gone  in  the  same  direction  as  he. 

22 


338   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

He  walked  the  whole  length  of  the  deserted  boulevard 
and  through  Rue  Royale,  as  if,  knowing  that  his  eyes 
did  not  see,  his  feet  had  recognized  the  place  where  he 
was.  He  raised  his  head,  and  stopped  when  he  saw 
that  he  was  going  straight  toward  Place  de  la  Revolu- 
tion, toward  the  square  to  which  he  had  taken  an  oath 
never  to  return. 

Dark  as  was  the  sky,  a  silhouette  that  was  even 
darker  stood  out  against  the  inky  horizon.  It  was  the 
silhouette  of  the  ghastly  machine,  whose  mouth,  wet 
with  blood,  was  dried  by  the  night  wind  as  it  slept, 
awaiting  the  coming  of  its  daily  quota  of  victims. 

It  was  by  daylight  that  Hoffmann  did  not  want  to  see 
the  square.  It  was  because  of  the  blood  that  flowed 
there  that  he  desired  to  avoid  it;  but  at  night  it  was  a 
different  matter.  To  the  poet,  in  whom,  despite  all 
that  had  passed,  the  poetic  instinct  was  still  awake,  it 
was  intensely  interesting  to  see  and  to  touch  with  his 
hands,  in  the  silence  and  darkness,  the  sinister  scaffold- 
ing whose  blood-stained  image  must  have  haunted  many 
minds  at  that  period. 

What  more  striking  contrast  to  the  tumultuous  gam- 
bling hell  he  had  just  left,  than  that  deserted  square 
whose  perpetual  guest  was  the  grim  scaffold!  by  day, 
the  spectacle  oi  death;  at  night,  solitude,  insensibility! 

So  Hoffmann  walked  toward  the  guillotine  as  if  drawn 
thither  by  a  magnetic  force. 

Suddenly,  and  almost  without  knowing  how  it  had 
come  about,  lie  found  himself  face  to  face  with  it. 

The  wind  was  Avhistling  through  the  boards. 

Hoffmann  folded  his  arms  across  his  breast  and 
looked. 

How  many  thoughts  must  have  been  born  in  the  mind 
of  that  young  man,  who,  with  his  pockets  filled  with 


THE   LOCKET.  339 

gold,  after  reckoning  upon  a  night  of  debauchery,  was 
passing  the  night  alone  beside  a  scaffold ! 

It  seemed  to  him,  in  the  midst  of  his  reverie,  as  if  a 
human  groan  were  mingled  with  the  sighing  of  the 
wind. 

He  leaned  his  head  forward  and  listened. 

The  groan  was  repeated,  not  at  a  distance,  but  near 
the  ground. 
y     He  looked  about  and  saw  no  one. 

Meanwhile  a  third  groan  reached  his  ears. 

"  One  would  say  it  was  a  woman's  voice,"  he  mut- 
tered, " and  it  seems  to  come  from  beneath  the  scaffold." 

Stooping  down,  in  order  to  see  better,  he  began  to 
make  the  circuit  of  the  guillotine.  As  he  passed  the 
terrible  ladder,  his  foot  stumbled  against  something. 
He  put  out  his  hands  and  touched  a  human  body, 
dressed  entirely  in  black,  crouching  on  the  lower 
step. 

"  Who  are  you,  who  sleep  beside  a  scaffold  at  night?  " 
asked  Hoffmann. 

And  as  he  spoke  he  knelt  in  order  to  see  the  face  of 
the  person  to  whom  he  was  speaking. 

But  she  did  not  stir.  Her  elbows  were  resting  on 
her  knees,  and  her  head  upon  her  hands. 

Despite  the  bitter  cold  her  shoulders  were  almost 
entirely  bare,  and  Hoffmann  could  see  a  black  line 
around  her  white  neck. 

That  line  was  a  velvet  necklace. 

"  Arsene !  "  he  cried. 

"Ah!  yes,  I  am  Arsene!"  muttered  the  crouching 
woman  in  a  strange  voice,  as  she  raised  her  head  and 
looked  at  Hoffmann. 


340   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

XVII. 

A  HOTEL   ON   BUE   SAINT-HONORi. 

Hoffmann  recoiled  in  terror.  Despite  the  voice, 
despite  the  face,  he  still  doubted.  But  Arsene  raised 
her  head  and  let  her  hands  fall  upon  her  knees,  thus 
uncovering  her  neck  and  disclosing  the  curious  diamond 
clasp  that  secured  the  ends  of  the  velvet  necklace;  and 
it  sparkled  in  the  darkness. 

"  Arsene !  Arsene  !  "  Hoffmann  repeated. 

Arsene  rose. 

"What  are  you  doing  here  at  this  hour,"  the  young 
man  asked,  "  clad  in  this  black  dress,  with  your 
shoulders  bare." 

"  He  was  taken  away  yesterday,"  Arsons  replied. 
"  They  came  to  arrest  me  too.  I  fled  just  as  I  was,  and 
to-night,  as  my  room  seemed  too  small  and  my  bed  too 
cold,  I  came  out  at  eleven  o'clock  and  found  my  way 
here." 

The  words  were  uttered  in  a  strange  voice,  without 
inflection,  without  gestures.  They  issued  from  pallid 
lips  which  opened  and  closed  as  if  by  a  spring.  One 
would  have  said  that  an  automaton  was  speaking. 

"  But  you  cannot  remain  here!  "  cried  Honmann. 

"  Where  should  I  go  ?  I  cannot  return  to  the  place  I 
came  from,  until  the  last  moment.     It  was  too  cold." 

"  Then  come  with  me,"  cried  Hoffmann. 

"  With  you !  "  exclaimed  Arsene. 

And  it  seemed  to  the  young  man  that  a  disdainful 
glance  fell  upon  him  in  the  starlight  from  that  dull  eye, 


A  HOTEL   ON  EUE   SAINT-HONOR^  341 

like  the  glance  that  had  crushed  him  in  the  lovely 
boudoir  on  Rue  de  Hanovre. 

"  I  am  rich;  I  have  gold,"  cried  Hoffmann. 

The  dancer's  eye  flashed. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  but  where  1  " 

"  Where  ?  " 

Indeed,  where  was  he  to  take  that  woman  of  luxu- 
rious, voluptuous  tastes,  who,  when  she  had  left  the 
magnificent  palaces  and  enchanted  gardens  of  the  Op^ra, 
was  accustomed  to  walk  upon  Persian  carpets  and  to 
recline  upon  Indian  cashmeres? 

Certainly  he  Could  not  take  her  to  his  little  student's 
chamber.  She  would  be  as  stifled  and  as  cold  there  as 
in  the  unknown  abode  of  which  she  just  spoke,  and  to 
which  she  seemed  to  dread  to  return. 

"  Where,  indeed  ? "  said  Hoffmann.  "  I  am  a 
stranger  in  Paris." 

"  I  will  show  you  where  to  go,"  said  Ars^ne. 

"  Oh!  yes,  yes,"  cried  Hoffmann. 

"Follow  me." 

She  started  off  in  front  of  him  at  a  swift,  automatic 
gait  which  had  nothing  in  common  with  the  charming 
suppleness  he  had  admired  in  the  dancer. 

It  did  not  occur  to  the  young  man  to  offer  her  his 
arm.     He  followed  her. 

Ars^ne  turned  into  Rue  Royale,  which  was  called  at 
that  time  Rue  de  la  Revolution,  turned  to  the  right 
into  Rue  Saint-Honore,  which  was  called  Rue  Honore 
without  the  prefix,  stopped  in  front  of  a  magnificent 
hotel  and  rang. 

The  door  was  opened  at  once. 

The  concierge  gazed  at  Arsfene  in  open-mouthed 
amazement. 

"  Speak  to  him,"  she  said  to  the  young  man,  "  or  they 


342      THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   VELVET    NECKLACE. 

won't  let  me  go  in,  and  I  shall  be  obliged  to  return  to 
my  seat  at  the  foot  of  the  guillotine." 

"  My  friend,"  said  Hoffmann,  hastily,  passing  between 
the  concierge  and  the  young  woman,  "  as  I  was  passing 
along  Champs-Elysees,  I  heard  some  one  calling  for 
help.  I  ran  up  in  time  to  prevent  madame  from  being 
murdered,  but  too  late  to  prevent  her  being  robbed.  Give 
me  your  best  room  at  once.  Have  a  great  fire  lighted  in 
it,  and  serve  a  good  supper.      Here  's  a  louis  for  you." 

He  cast  a  louis  d'or  on  the  table  on  which  the  lamp 
stood,  and  all  the  rays  of  light  seemed  to  concentrate  on 
the  gleaming  features  of  Louis  XV. 

A  louis  was  a  large  sum  at  that  time.  It  represented 
nine  hundred  and  twenty-five  francs  in  assignats. 

The  concierge  removed  his  dirty  cap  and  rang. 
A  waiter  answered  the  bell. 

"Quick!  quick!  a  room,  the  best  in  the  house,  for 
monsieur  and  madame!  " 

"  For  monsieur  and  madame, "  repeated  the  waiter, 
staring  in  open-mouthed  wonder  at  Hoffmann's  more 
than  simple  dress  and  Arsene's  more  than  airy  costume, 
one  after  the  other. 

"Yes,"  said  Hoffmann,  "the  best,  the  finest;  and 
above  all  things  let  it  be  well  warmed  and  well  lighted. 
Here  's  a  louis  for  you." 

The  waiter  seemed  to  undergo  the  same  influence  as 
the  concierge,  bowed  before  the  louis,  and  pointed  to  a 
grand  staircase,  which  was  but  half-lighted  because  of 
the  advanced  hour  of  the  night,  but  which  was  carpeted 
from  top  to  bottom,  —  a  most  unusual  extravagance  at 
that  period. 

"Go  up,"  he  said,  "and  wait  at  the  door  of  number 
three." 

With  that  he  disappeared. 


A  HOTEL   ON   RUE   SAINT-HONOK^  343 

On  the  first  stair  Ars^ne  stopped. 

Light-footed  sylph  though  she  was,  she  seemed  to 
find  an  insuperable  difficulty  in  lifting  her  foot.  You 
would  have  said  that  her  thin  satin  shoes  were  soled 
with  lead. 

Hoffmann  offered  her  his  arm.  Arsene  rested  her 
hand  upon  it,  and  although  he  did  not  feel  the  weight 
of  her  hand,  he  was  conscious  of  a  sensation  of  cold 
from  the   contact. 

With  a  violent  effort  Arsene  mounted  the  first  stair 
and  the  others  in  succession;  but  every  stair  extorted  a 
sigh  from  her. 

"  0  poor  girl !  "  murmured  Hoffmann.  "  How  you 
must  have  suffered!  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  replied  Arsene,  "  I  have  suffered  much." 

They  reached  the  door  of  number  three.  But  the 
waiter  arrived  almost  as  soon  as  they,  bringing  a  veri- 
table brazier.  He  opened  the  door  and  in  an  instant  a 
fire  was  blazing  on  the  hearth,  and  the  candles  were 
lighted. 

"You  must  be  hungry,  are  you  not?"  Hoffmann 
asked. 

*  I  don't  know,"  was  the  reply. 

"The  best  supper  you  can  give  us,  boy,"  said 
Hoffmann. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  waiter,  "  people  don't  say  hoij 
nowadays,  but  official.  However,  monsieur  pays  so 
handsomely,  that  he  can  say  what  he  chooses." 

Delighted  with  his  own  wit,  he  went  out,  saying,  — 

"  Supper  will  be  ready  in  five  minutes." 

When  the  door  had  closed  behind  him,  Hoffmann 
turned  and  looked  at  Arsene. 

She  was  in  such  haste  to  be  near  the  fire  that  she  had 
not   time   to   draw    an   easy-chair  to  the  hearth.     She 


344   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

simply  crouched  in  front  of  it,  in  the  same  position  in 
which  Hoffmann  had  found  her  in  front  of  the  guillo- 
tine; and  there,  her  elhows  resting  on  her  knees-  she 
seemed  intent  upon  holding  her  head  straight  upon  her 
shoulders  with  both  hands. 

"  Arsene,  Arsene !  "  said  the  young  man.  "  I  told 
you  that  I  was  rich,  did  I  not?  Look,  and  you  will 
see  that  I  did  not  lie." 

He  began  by  emptying  his  hat  upon  the  table.  It 
was  filled  with  louis  and  double  louis,  and  they  poured 
from  it  on  the  marble  with  the  peculiar  ringing  sound 
that  is  so  easily  distinguished  from  all  other  sounds. 

Then  he  emptied  his  pockets,  which,  one  after  another, 
disgorged  the  enormous  plunder  he  had  bagged  at  the 
gaming-table. 

A  heap  of  restless,  resplendent  gold  pieces  covered 
the  table. 

Arsene  seemed  to  come  to  life  at  the  sound.  She 
turned  her  head,  and  what  she  saw  seemed  to  complete 
the  resurrection  begun  by  what  she  had  heard. 

She  rose,  still  stiflf  and  rigid;  but  her  pale  lips  smiled, 
her  glassy  eyes  lighted  up  and  shot  forth  rays  that 
blended  with  the  rays  of  the  gold. 

«  Oh !  "  said  she.     "  Is  all  that  yours  1  " 

"No,  not  mine,  but  yours,  Arsene." 

"  Mine !  "  exclaimed  the  dancer. 

She  plunged  her  bloodless  hands  into  the  heap  of 
metal.  Her  arms  disappeared  to  the  elbow,  and  she, 
whose  very  life  gold  had  been,  seemed  to  live  again  at 
the  touch  of  gold. 

"Mine,"  she  said,  "mine!"  and  she  uttered  the 
words  in  a  quivering,  metallic  tone  that  blended  in  a 
most  extraordinary  way  with  the  chink  of  the  louis. 

Two  waiters  entered,  bringing  a  table  all  set,  which 


A  HOTEL   ON   RUE   SAINT-HONOR^  345 

they  were  near  dropping  when  they  espied  the  mass  of 
riches  the  young  woman  was  kneading  in  her  clinched 
hands. 

"Very  good,"  said  Hoffmann.  "Bring  some  cham- 
pagne and  leave  us." 

The  waiters  brought  several  bottles  of  champagne  and 
withdrew. 

Hoffmann  closed  the  door  behind  them  and  locked  it. 

Then,  his  eyes  glowing  with  desire,  he  returned  to 
Arsene,  whom  he  found  standing  at  the  table,  renewing 
her  life,  not  in  the  fountain  of  Youth,  but  in  that  yellow 
Pactolus. 

"  Well !  "  he  said  inquiringl.y. 

"  Gold  is  beautiful !  "  she  said.  "  It  is  long  since  I 
touched  any. " 

"  Come  and  sup,"  said  Hoffmann,  "  and  after  supper, 
if  you  choose,  0  Danae,  you  shall  bathe  in  gold  at  your 
ease." 

He  led  her  to  the  table. 

"  I  am  cold !  "  she  said. 

Hoffmann  looked  about  the  room.  There  were  red 
damask  curtains  to  the  bed  and  at  the  windows.  He 
tore  a  curtain  from  the  window  and  gave  it  to  Arsene. 

She  wrapped  herself  in  the  curtain,  which  seemed  to 
drape  itself  about  her  in  graceful  folds  like  the  cloaks 
worn  by  the  ancient  Greeks,  and  her  pale  face,  sur- 
rounded by  that  red  drapery,  seemed  doubly  pale. 

Hoffmann  was  almost  afraid. 

He  took  his  place  at  the  table,  poured  and  drank  two 
or  three  glasses  of  champagne  in  rapid  succession. 
Thereupon  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  slight  flush  over- 
spread Arsene 's  cheeks. 

He  poured  wine  for  her,  and  she  too  drank.  Then 
lie  tried  to  make  her  eat,  but  she  refused. 


346   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

"I  could  not  swallow,"  she  said,  when  Hoffmann 
insisted. 

"  Let  us  drink  then. " 

"  Yes,  let  us  drink,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  glass. 

Hoffmann  was  hungry  as  well  as  thirsty.  He  ate 
and  drank. 

He  drank  especially  hard.  He  felt  that  he  needed 
courage,  not  that  Arsene,  as  in  her  own  home,  seemed 
disposed  to  resist  him  either  by  force  or  by  contempt, 
but  because  there  seemed  to  be  an  ice-cold  emanation 
from  his  lovely  companion's  body. 

As  he  drank,  Arsene,  in  his  eyes  at  least,  became 
more  animated;  but  when  she  emptied  her  glass,  several 
red  drops  rolled  from  beneath  the  velvet  necklace  and 
trickled  down  upon  the  dancer's  breast.  Hoffmann 
watched  them  without  understanding;  but,  feeling  that 
there  was  some  terrible  mystery  beneath  it  all,  he  com- 
bated his  internal  tremors  by  multiplying  toasts  to  her 
lovely  eyes,  her  lovely  mouth,  her  lovely  hands. 

She  honored  his  toasts,  drinking  as  much  as  he,  and 
seeming  to  derive  animation,  not  from  the  wine  she 
drank  herself,  but  from  the  wine  that  Hoffmann  drank. 

Suddenly  a  stick  fell  from  the  fire. 

Hoffmann  followed  with  his  eyes  the  blazing  brand, 
which  did  not  stop  until  it  touched  Arsene's  bare  foot. 
She  had  removed  her  shoes  and  stockings,  the  better  to 
warm  herself,  and  her  little  foot,  white  as  marble,  rested 
on  the  marble  hearth,  which  too  was  as  white  as  the 
foot,  and  seemed  to  be  cut  from  the  same  block. 

Hoffmann  cried  out. 

"Arsene!  Arsene!  take  care!  "  he  said. 

"Of  what?"  she  asked. 

"  That  piece  of  wood  —  that  wood  against  your  foot." 

The  brand  did,  in  fact,  half  cover  Arsene's  foot. 


A   HOTEL   ON   RUE   SAINT-HONOR^.  347 

"  Take  it  away,"  she  said  calmly. 

Hoffmann  stooped,  picked  up  the  brand,  and  discov- 
ered, to  his  intense  surprise,  that  it  had  not  burned  the 
girl's  foot,  but  that  the  foot  had  extinguished  the  flame. 

"  Let  us  drink !  "  said  he. 

"  Let  us  drink !  "  said  Arsene. 

She  held  out  her  glass. 

The  second  bottle  was  empty. 

But  Hoffmann  began  to  feel  that  the  intoxication  of 
wine  was  not  enough. 

His  eye  fell  upon  a  piano. 

"  Good !  "  he  exclaimed. 

He  realized  the  resource  opened  to  him  by  the  intoxi- 
cation of  music. 

He  darted  to  the  piano. 

Beneath  his  fingers  came  forth  as  naturally  as  possible 
the  air  to  which  Arsene  had  danced  the  pas  de  trois  in 
the  opera  of  the  "Judgment  of  Paris,"  when  he  first 
saw   her. 

But  it  seemed  to  Hoffmann  as  if  the  chords  of  the 
piano  Avere  of  steel.  The  single  instrument  produced  a 
volume  of  sound  equal  to  a  whole  orchestra. 

"  Ah!  "  said  Hoffmann,  "  this  is  glorious!  " 

He  had  found  in  that  sound  the  intoxication  he  sought. 

Arsene  rose  as  he  struck  the  first  chords.  They  seemed 
to  envelop  her  whole  person  like  a  network  of  flame. 

She  threw  aside  the  red  damask  curtain,  and,  strange 
to  say,  just  as  a  magic  transformation  scene  is  carried 
out  on  the  stage,  no  one  knows  how,  so  a  transformation 
took  place  in  her  costume,  and  instead  of  her  black 
dress  and  bare  shoulders,  she  appeared  in  the  costume  of 
Flore,  bedecked  with  flowers,  enveloped  in  clouds  of 
gauze,  and  trembling  with  excitement. 

Hoffmann  uttered  a  sharp  exclamation,  then  played 


348   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

on  with  redoubled  energy,  until  the  resonant  steel 
muscles  in  the  breast  of  the  instrument  seemed  instinct 
with  supernatural  force. 

Thereupon  the  same  hallucinatipn  spread  confusion 
in  Hoffmann's  mind.  That  pirouetting  creature,  who 
had  become  animated  by  slow  degrees,  exerted  an  irre- 
sistible power  of  attraction  over  him.  She  had  taken 
for  her  stage  all  the  space  between  the  piano  and  the 
alcove,  and  her  figure  stood  out  like  an  apparition  from 
hell  against  the  red  background  of  the  bed-curtains. 
Whenever  she  returned  from  the  end  of  the  room  toward 
Hoffmann,  he  rose  from  his  chair.  Whenever  she  moved 
away  from  him  again,  he  felt  something  drawing  him 
after  her.  At  last,  —  and  Hoffmann  had  no  idea  how  it 
came  about,  —  the  movement  changed  under  his  fingers. 
He  no  longer  played  the  air  he  had  heard  at  the  Opera, 
but  a  waltz;  that  waltz  was  Beethoven's  "Desire."  It 
had  come  naturally  to  his  fingers  as  an  expression  of 
his  thought.  Arsene  too  had  changed  the  time  of  her 
dance.  At  first  she  turned  round  and  round  in  the  same 
spot,  then  gradually  enlarged  the  circle  she  described, 
and  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  Hoffmann.  Hoffmann, 
breathing  hard,  felt  her  coming,  felt  her  drawing  near. 
He  realized  that  at  last  she  would  touch  him,  and  that 
then  he  could  not  resist  rising  in  his  turn  and  taking 
part  in  that  wild  waltz. 

He  was  conscious  of  a  sensation  of  terror  mingled 
with  his  passion.  At  last  Arsene,  as  she  passed,  put 
out  her  hand,  and  touched  him  with  the  ends  of  her 
fingers.  Hoffmann  uttered  a  cry,  jumped  as  if  touched 
by  an  electric  spark,  darted  after  the  dancer,  overtook 
her,  threw  his  arms  around  her  waist,  continuing  in  his 
thought  the  air  he  had  ceased  to  play,  clasping  to  his 
heart  that  body  which  had  regained  its  elasticity,  seek- 


A   HOTEL   ON  RUE   SAINT-HONOR^  349 

ing  a  glance  from  her  eyes,  the  breath  from  her  mouth, 
devouring  her  with  kisses;  whirling  about,  no  longer  in 
respirable  air,  but  in  an  atmosphere  of  flame  which  pene- 
trated to  the  deepest  recesses  of  their  being,  until  at  last 
they  fell  exhausted. 

When  Hoff'mann  awoke  the  next  morning,  one  of  the 
dull  days  peculiar  to  a  Parisian  winter  had  begun  its 
course,  and  the  light  entered  the  room  through  the  win- 
dow from  which  the  curtain  had  been  removed.  He 
looked  about  him,  not  knowing  where  he  was,  and  felt 
a  lifeless  mass  pressing  against  his  left  arm.  He  leaned 
in  the  direction  from  which  the  numbness  that  assailed 
his  heart  seemed  to  come,  and  recognized,  lying  across 
the  bed,  not  the  lovely  danseuse  of  the  Porte  Saint- 
Martin  Theatre,  but  the  pallid-faced  girl  of  Place  de  la 
Revolution. 

Thereupon  he  remembered  everything,  and,  seeing 
that  the  body  lay  perfectly  still,  he  seized  a  candlestick 
in  which  five  candles  were  still  burning,  and  by  their 
light  and  the  light  of  day  combined,  discovered  that  her 
face  was  white  and  her  eyes  closed. 

His  first  idea  was  that  fatigue  had  been  too  much  for 
her,  and  that  she  had  fainted.  He  took  her  hand;  it 
was  as  cold  as  ice.  He  put  his  hand  over  her  heart; 
her  heart  had  ceased  to  beat. 

Thereupon  a  ghastly  thought  passed  through  his 
mind.  He  pulled  violently  at  the  bell-cord,  which 
broke  in  his  hands.  He  rushed  to  the  door,  opened  it, 
and  darted  down  the  stairs,  crying, — 

"Help!   help!" 

A  little  man  dressed  in  black  was  ascending  the  stairs 
at  the  same  moment.  He  raised  his  head.  Hoffmann 
looked  at  him  and  uttered  a  cry.  He  had  recognized 
the  physician  of  the  Opera. 


350   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

"  Ah !  is  it  you ,  my  dear  monsieur  1  "  said  the  doctor 
as  he  recognized  Hoffmann.  "  What  is  the  matter,  why 
all  this  outcry  ?  " 

"Oh!  come,  come,"  said  Hoffmann,  not  taking  the 
time  to  explain  to  his  friend  what  he  expected  of  him, 
but  hoping  that  the  sight  of  Arsene's  inanimate  form 
would  have  more  effect  on  him  than  anything  he  could 
say.     "Come!" 

He  led  him  into  the  room,  dragged  him  to  the  bed 
with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  seized  the  candlestick 
and  held  it  to  Arsene's  face. 

"  Look, "  he  said. 

But  the  doctor,  far  from  manifesting  any  excitement 
or  dismay,  said  calmly,  — 

"  Ah!  it  was  well  done  of  you,  young  man;  it  was 
well  done  of  you  to  redeem  the  body  so  that  it  might 
not  rot  in  the  common  trench.  Very  well  done,  young 
man !  very  well  done  !  " 

"  The  body,"  muttered  Hoffmann,  "  redeemed,  —  the 
common  trench  !  In  God's  name,  what  are  you  talking 
about  1  " 

"  I  say  that  our  poor  Arsene  was  arrested  yesterday  at 
eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  was  tried  yesterday  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  was  executed  yesterday  at 
four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon." 

Hoffmann  thought  that  he  was  going  mad.  He  seized 
the  doctor  by  the  throat. 

"  Executed  yesterday  at  four  o'clock  !  "  he  cried,  as  if 
he  himself  were  being  strangled,  "  Arsene  executed  !  " 

He  laughed  aloud,  but  his  laugh  was  so  strange,  so 
strident,  so  utterly  distinct  from  all  the  ordinary  modu- 
lations of  the  human  voice,  that  the  doctor  glanced  at 
him  with  something  like  terror  in  his  eyes. 

"  Do  you  doubt  it  1  "  he  asked. 


A  HOTEL   ON   RUE   SAINT-HONORlS.  351 

"What!"  cried  Hoffmann,  "do  I  doubt  it?  I 
should  say  so.  I  supped  and  waltzed  with  her  last 
night." 

"  If  that  is  so,  it 's  an  interesting  case,  and  one  to  be 
noted  in  the  annals  of  medicine.  You  will  sign  a 
statement  of  the  facts,  won't  you?" 

"  But  I  cannot  sign,  for  I  say  that  you  lie.  I  say  it 
is  impossible;  I  say  it  is  not  so." 

"  Ah  !  you  say  that  it  is  not  so,"  rejoined  the  doctor. 
"  You  say  that  to  me,  the  physician  to  the  prisons ;  to 
me,  who  did  all  that  I  could  do  to  save  her  and  failed; 
to  me  who  bade  her  adieu  when  she  mounted  the  tum- 
bril !     You  say  that  it  is  not  so  !     Wait !  " 

Thereupon  the  doctor  put  out  his  liand,  pressed  a 
spring  in  the  diamond  clasp  that  held  the  velvet  neck- 
lace in  place,  and  removed  the  ribbon. 

Hoffmann  uttered  a  terrible  cry.  No  longer  supported 
by  the  only  bond  that  attached  it  to  the  shoulders,  the 
head  fell  from  the  bed  to  the  floor,  and  did  not  stop 
until  it  touched  Hoffmann's  shoe,  even  as  the  brand  had 
not  stopped  until  it  touched  Ars^ne's  foot. 

The  young  man  recoiled,  and  rushed  down  the  stairs, 
shrieking,  — 

"I  am  mad!" 

There  was  no  exaggeration  in  his  exclamation.  The 
slight  partition  separating  sanity  from  insanity  in  the 
poet  who  exercises  his  cerebral  faculties  beyond  measure, 
—  that  slight  partition  that  sometimes  seems  ready  to 
break,  cracked  in  his  brain  with  a  noise  like  that  made 
by  a  wall  as  it  settles. 

In  those  days  people  did  not  run  far  through  the 
streets  of  Paris  without  telling  why  they  were  running. 
The  Parisians  had  become  very  inquisitive  in  the  year 
of  grace  1793,  and  whenever  a  man  was  seen  running. 


352      THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   VELVET  NECKLACE. 

he  was  stopped  in  order  that  he  might  tell  whom  he 
was  running  after  or  who  was  running  after  him. 

So  it  fell  out  that  Hoffmann  was  stopped  in  front  of 
the  Church  of  the  Assumption,  which  had  heen  turned 
into  a  guard-house,  and  was  taken  before  the  command- 
ing officer  of  the  post. 

There  Hoffmann  awoke  to  a  realizing  sense  of  the 
real  danger  of  his  position.  Some  took  him  for  an 
aristocrat  who  had  adopted  that  gait  in  order  to  reach 
the  frontier  more  quickly.  Others  cried :  "  Down  with 
the  agent  of  Pitt  and  Coburg  !  "  Some  shouted :  "  To 
the  nearest  lamp-post ! "  which  was  not  cheerful. 
Others:  "  To  the  Eevolutionary  Tribunal !  "  which  waa 
less  cheerful  still.  People  sometimes  were  saved  from 
the  lamp-post,  witness  Abbe  Maury;  but  from  the 
Revolutionary  Tribunal,  never ! 

Thereupon  Hoffmann  tried  to  explain  what  had  hap- 
pened to  him  since  the  previous  evening.  He  told  of 
his  visit  to  the  gambling-house  and  his  winnings.  He 
told  how,  with  pockets  filled  with  gold,  he  had  hurried 
to  Rue  de  Hanovre;  how  the  woman  he  sought  was 
no  longer  there;  how,  under  the  sway  of  the  passion 
that  consumed  him,  he  had  traversed  the  streets  of 
Paris;  how,  as  he  crossed  Place  de  la  Revolution,  he 
had  found  the  woman  he  sought  sitting  at  the  foot  of 
the  guillotine;  how  she  had  taken  him  to  a  hotel  in 
Rue  Saint-Honore,  how  they  had  danced  and  supped 
together,  and  how  he  had  found,  not  a  dead  woman 
merely,  but  a  headless  woman,  in  the  room  that 
morning. 

All  this  was  very  improbable,  and  Hoffmann's  story 
gained  little  credence.  The  most  fanatical  partisans  of 
truth  called  it  a  lie,  the  more  moderate  called  it 
madness. 


A  HOTEL   ON  RUE   SAINT-HONOR^.  353 

At  this  juncture  one  of  those  present  conceived  this 
method  of  throwing  light  on  the  question. 

"You  passed  the  night,  you  say,  at  a  hotel  on  Rue 
Saint-Honor^  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"You  emptied  your  pockets,  which  were  filled  with 
gold,  upon  a  table  there?" 

"Yes." 

"  You  took  supper  there  with  the  woman  "Whose  head, 
when  it  fell  at  your  feet,  caused  the  extraordinary  terroF 
under  which  you  were  laboring  when  we  arrested  you  1  " 

"Yes." 

"  Very  well !  Let  us  look  for  th«  hotel.  We  prob- 
ably shall  not  find  the  gold  now,  but  we  shall  find  the 
woman. " 

"Yes,  yes,"  cried  everybody.  "  Let  us  look  for  the 
hotel !  " 

Hoffmann  would  have  been  very  glad  not  to  go,  but 
he  had  no  choice  but  to  obey  the  enthusiastic  determina- 
tion that  followed  the  suggestion. 

So  he  left  the  church  and  retraced  his  steps  doAvn  Eue 
Saint-Honore. 

It  was  not  a  long  distance  from  the  Church  of  the 
Assumption  to  Rue  Royale.  And  yet  Hoffmann  looked 
in  vain,  first  carelessly,  then  with  more  attention,  and 
at  last  with  a  very  earnest  desire  to  find  what  he  sought. 
He  saw  nothing  that  reminded  him  of  the  hotel  he 
had  entered  the  night  before ,  where  he  had  passed  the 
night,  and  which  he  had  left  a  few  moments  before. 
Like  the  enchanted  palaces  that  vanish  when  the  stage- 
machinist  has  no  further  need  of  them,  the  hotel  on 
Rue  Saint-Honor^  had  utterly  disappeared  after  the 
ghastly  scene  we  have  tried  to  describe  had  been  played. 

All  this  did  not  satisfy  the  fools  who  had  accompanied 

33 


354      THE   WOMAN   WITH   THE   VELVET   NECKLACE. 

Hoffmann,  and  who  were  determined  to  reach  some 
result  that  would  compensate  them  for  the  trouble  they 
had  taken.  Such  a  result  could  be  attained  only  by  the 
finding  of  Arsene's  body  or  by  the  arrest  of  Hoffmann 
as  a  suspicious  person. 

As  they  failed  to  find  Arsene's  body,  they  were 
seriously  discussing  the  advisability  of  arresting  Hoff- 
mann, when  he  suddenly  spied  the  little  man  in  black, 
and  appealed  to  him  for  help,  invoking  his  testimony 
to  the  truth  of  the  story  he  had  told. 

The  voice  of  a  physician  always  has  a  great  influence 
on  the  multitude.  The  little  man  mentioned  his  pro- 
fession, and  was  allowed  to  approach  Hoffmann. 

"  Ah  !  poor  fellow  !  "  he  said,  taking  his  hand  on  the 
pretext  of  feeling  his  pulse,  but  really  to  urge  him,  by 
a  significant  pressure,  not  to  contradict  what  he  said. 
"  Poor  fellow  !  so  he  has  escaped !  " 

"  Escaped  from  where  ?  escaped  from  what  ?  "  cried 
twenty  voices  in  chorus. 

"Yes,  escaped  from  where?"  demanded  Hoffmann, 
refusing  to  accept  the  means  of  salvation  the  doctor 
offered  him,  which  he  considered  humiliating. 

"  Parhleu  !  from  the  hospital,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  From  the  hospital !  "  cried  the  crowd.  "  What 
hospital  ?  " 

"  The  insane  hospital !  " 

"  0  doctor,  doctor  !  "  cried  Hoffmann ;  "  no  jest- 
ing !  " 

"  The  poor  devil,"  cried  the  doctor,  apparently  heed- 
less of  Hoffmann's  interruption,  "the  poor  devil  has 
lost  some  woman  that  he  loved  on  the  scaffold,  it 
seems." 

"Oh!  yes,  yes,"  cried  Hoffmann.  "I  did  love  her 
well,  but  not  as  I  love  Antonia." 


A  HOTEL   ON   HUE   SAINT-HONOR]^.  355 

**  Poor  boy  !  "  said  several  women  who  were  standing 
by,  and  who  began  to  feel  compassion  for  Hoffmann. 

"Yes,  since  then,"  continued  the  doctor,  "he  has 
been  the  victim  of  a  terrible  hallucination.  He 
imagines  that  he  is  gambling.  He  imagines  that  he 
wins.  When  he  has  won,  he  imagines  that  he  will  be 
able  to  buy  the  woman  he  loves.  He  runs  through 
the  streets  with  his  gold.  He  finds  a  woman  at  the 
foot  of  the  guillotine  and  takes  her  to  some  superb 
palace,  some  magnificent  hotel,  where  he  passes  the 
night  drinking  and  singing  and  dancing  with  her ;  and 
after  that  he  finds  her  dead.  Isn't  that  what  he  told 
you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  cried  the  crowd,  "  word  for  word." 

"  Very  good !  very  good  !  "  said  Hofi"mann,  with  a 
gleaming  eye.  "  Will  you  say  that  it 's  not  true,  doctor, 
when  you  were  the  one  who  unfastened  the  diamond 
clasp  that  held  the  velvet  necklace  ?  Oh !  I  ought  to 
have  suspected  something  when  I  saw  the  champagne 
ooze  from  under  the  necklace,  when  I  saw  the  burning 
wood  fall  on  her  bare  foot,  and  that  bare  foot,  that  dead 
foot  extinguish  it  instead  of  being  burned  by  it." 

"  You  see,"  said  the  doctor,  with  an  expression  of 
deep  sympathy  and  in  a  sad  voice,  "  his  mad  fit  is 
coming  on  again." 

"  What 's  that,  my  mad  fit !  "  cried  Hoffmann.  "  Do 
you  dare  to  say  that  it  is  not  true  ?  You  dare  to  say 
that  I  did  not  sup  last  night  with  Arsene  who  was 
guillotined  yesterday  !  You  dare  to  say  that  her  velvet 
necklace  was  n't  the  only  thing  that  kept  her  head  on 
her  shoulders!  You  dare  to  say  that,  when  you  unfas- 
tened the  clasp  and  removed  the  velvet,  the  head  did 
not  fall  on  the  carpet!  Nonsense,  doctor,  nonsense; 
you  know  very  well  that  what  I  say  is  true." 


356      THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE   VELVET  NECKLACE. 

"  You  are  convinced  now,  my  friends,  are  n't  you?  " 
said  the  doctor. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  cried  a  score  of  voices  in  the  crowd,  and 
those  who  said  nothing  nodded  their  beads  sadly  in 
token  of  assent. 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  the  doctor,  "call  a  cab  so 
that  I  can  take  him  back." 

"  Back  where  ?  "  cried  Hoffmann.  "  Where  do  you 
propose   to  take  me  1  " 

"Where?"  said  the  doctor;  "why,  to  the  madhouse 
that  you  have  just  escaped  from,  my  good  friend. 
Morbleu  I  let  me  do  what  I  say, "  he  added  in  an  under- 
tone, "  or  I  won't  answer  for  your  safety.  These  people 
will  think  that  you  have  been  laughing  at  them,  and 
they  '11  tear  you  to  pieces." 

Hoffmann  sighed  and  let  his  arms  fall. 

"There,  you  see,"  said  the  doctor,  "now  he's  as 
gentle  as  a  lamb.  The  paroxysm  has  passed.  There, 
my  friend,  there,  there!  "  And  the  doctor  pretended  to 
soothe  HoiFmann  by  patting  him,  as  one  soothes  an 
excited  horse  or  an  angry  dog. 

Meanwhile  a  cab  had  been  summoned  and  had  driven 
up. 

"  Get  in  quickly,"  said  the  doctor  to  Hoffmann. 

Hoffmann  obeyed.  He  had  exhausted  all  his  strength 
in  the  struggle. 

**  To  Bic§tre!  "  said  the  doctor  aloud,  as  he  entered 
the  cab  behind  Hoffmann, 

"  Where  do  you  want  to  be  put  down  ?  "  he  asked  the 
young  man  in  an  undertone. 

"  At  the  Palais-Egalit^,"  said  Hoffmann,  almost 
inaudibly. 

"  Off  you  go,  driver,"  cried  the  doctor. 

Then  he  waved  his  band  to  the  crowd. 


A  HOTEL  ON   RUE   SAINT-HONOR^  357 

"  Long  live  the  doctor!  "  they  cried. 

The  crowd,  when  it  is  under  the  sway  of  any  passion, 
is  always  impelled  to  cry  long  live  some  one,  or  down 
with  some  one. 

At  the  Palais-^galit^  the  doctor  called  to  the  driver 
to  stop. 

"  Adieu,  young  man,"  he  said,  "  and  if  you  take  my 
advice  you  will  start  for  Germany  at  the  earliest  pos- 
sible moment.  France  is  n't  a  good  place  for  men  with 
such  imaginations  as  yours." 

With  that  he  pushed  Hoffmann  out  of  the  cab,  and 
Hoffmann,  still  dazed  by  what  had  happened,  would 
have  walked  straight  under  the  wheels  of  a  wagon 
coining  in  the  opposite  direction,  had  not  a  young  man 
who  was  passing  darted  forward  and  caught  him  in  his 
arms,  as  the  driver  of  the  wagon,  on  his  side,  made  an 
effort  to  stop  his  horses. 

The  cab  went  its  way. 

The  two  young  men,  he  who  had  almost  fallen, 
and  he  who  had  saved  him,  exclaimed  in  the  same 
breath ,  — 

"  Hoffmann !  " 

"  Werner !  " 

Observing  his  friend's  prostration,  Werner  led  him 
into  the  garden  of  the  Palais-Royal. 

Thereupon  the  memory  of  all  that  had  recently  taken 
place  recurred  to  Hoffmann's  mind  more  vividly  than 
ever,  and  he  remembered  Antonia's  locket,  which  he 
had  pawned  at  the  German  money-changer's. 

He  exclaimed  in  dismay  as  he  reflected  that  he  had 
emptied  all  his  pockets  on  the  marble  table  at  the  hotel. 
But  at  the  same  instant  he  remembered  that  he  had  put 
three  louis,  with  which  to  redeem  the  portrait,  in  his 
watch-pocket. 


358   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

The  pocket  had  loyally  retained  its  treasure.  The 
three  louis  were  still  there. 

Hoffmann  escaped  from  Werner's  arms,  crying, 
"  Wait  for  me  !  "  and  hurried  away  in  the  direction  of 
the  money-changer's  office. 

At  every  step  that  he  took  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he 
were  emerging  from  a  dense  vapor,  and  advancing, 
through  an  ever-lightening  cloud,  toward  a  pure  and 
resplendent  atmosphere. 

At  the  money-changer's  door  he  paused  to  take 
hreath.  The  old  vision,  the  vision  of  the  night  had 
almost  vanished. 

Having  recovered  his  breath  he  entered  the  shop. 

The  money-changer  was  in  his  place.  The  copper 
bowls  were  in  their  places. 

At  the  ntoise  made  by  Hoffmann  in  entering,  the 
money-changer  raised  his  head. 

"Aha!"  he  said,  "is  it  you,  my  young  country- 
man 1  Faith  !  I  confess  that  I  did  not  expect  to  see 
you  again." 

"I  trust  that  you  don't  say  that  because  you  have 
disposed  of  the  locket !  "  cried  Hoffmann. 

"  No,  I  promised  you  that  I  would  keep  it,  and  if  I 
had  been  offered  twenty-five  louis  for  it  instead  of  the 
three  you  owe  me,  the  locket  would  not  have  left  my 
shop." 

"Here  are  the  three  louis,"  said  Hoffmann,  timidly. 
"  But  I  confess  that  I  am  not  able  to  pay  you  any 
interest. " 

"  Interest  for  one  night,"  said  the  money-changer, 
"  nonsense,  you  are  joking.  Interest  on  three  louis  for 
one  night,  and  from  a  fellow-countryman  too!  never!  '* 
And  he  handed  him  the  locket. 

"  Thanks,  mein  herr,"  said  Hoffmann.     "  And  now," 


A  HOTEL   ON    RUE  SAINT-HONOR^  359 

he  added,  with  a  sigh,  "  I  must  go  and  try  to  get  some 
money  to  take  me  back  to  Mannheim." 

"To  Mannheim,"  said  the  money-changer.  "Tell 
me,  are  you  of  Mannheim?  " 

"  No,  I  am  not  of  Mannheim,  but  I  live  at  Mannheim. 
My  promised  bride  is  at  Mannheim.  She  is  waiting 
for  me,  and  I  am  going  back  to  Mannheim  to  marry 
her." 

"Aha!  "  said  the  money-changer;  and  as  the  young 
man  had  his  hand  on  the  door-knob  he  added, — 

"I  wonder  if  you  know  an  old  friend  of  mine  at 
Mannheim,  a  musician?" 

"  Named  Gottlieb  Murr  ?  "  cried  Hoffmann. 

"  The  same !     Do  you  know  him  1  " 

"  Do  I  know  him !  I  should  say  so,  as  his  daughter  is 
to  be  my  wife." 

"  Antonia  ?  "  cried  the  money-changer.  "  What  do 
you  say,  young  man?  that  you  were  returning  to 
Mannheim  to  marry  Antonia  1 " 

"To  be  sure." 

"  In  that  case  remain  in  Paris,  for  you  would  take  a 
fruitless  journey." 

"  Why  so  ?  " 

"  Because  here  is  a  letter  from  her  father  telling 
me  that  Antonia  died  suddenly,  as  she  was  playing 
the  harp,  eight  days  ago,  at  three  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon." 

It  was  the  very  day  that  Hoffmann  had  gone  to 
Arsene's  house  to  paint  her  portrait.  It  was  the  very 
hour  when  he  had  pressed  his  lips  to  her  bare  shoulder. 

Deathly  pale,  trembling,  crushed,  Hoffmann  opened 
the  locket  in  order  to  put  Antonia's  image  to  his  lips, 
but  the  ivory  was  as  white  and  spotless  as  if  it  had  never 
been  touched  by  the  brush  of  the  painter. 


360   THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  VELVET  NECKLACE. 

Nothing  of  Antonia  was  left  to  Hoffmann,  twice  false 
to  his  oath,  not  even  the  image  of  her  to  whom  he  had 
sworn  everlasting  love. 

Two  hours  later  Hoffmann,  accompanied  by  Werner 
and  the  worthy  broker,  took  his  place  in  the  diligence 
for  Mannheim,  where  he  arrived  just  in  time  to  follow 
to  the  cemetery  the  body  of  old  Gottlieb  Murr,  who  had 
prayed  on  his  death-bed  to  be  buried  beside  hi*  dear 
Antonia. 


BLANCHE  DE  BEAULIEU. 


LIST  OF   CHARACTERS. 

Period,  1793-1794. 


revolutionists. 


General  Alexandre  Dumas,  the  author's  father. 
General  Marceau,  a  young  republican  leader. 
Maximilien  Robespierre,  "> 
Saint-Just, 

COLLOT  d'HeRBOIS, 

Billaud-Varennes, 

Robert  Lindet, 

Gout  HON, 

Gambon, 

Carnot, 

Barrere, 

Danton,  leader  of  the  Mountain. 

Gamille  Desmoulins, 

Philippaux, 

HilRAULT  DE  SiCHELLES, 

Lacroix,  J 

Hebert,  of  the  Gommuue. 

Delmar,  representative  of  the  people. 

Garrier,  proconsul  at  Nantes. 

Blanche  de  Beaulieu,  daughter  of  the  Marquis  de  Beaulieu,  a 

Vendean. 
TiNGUY,  in  the  service  of  Marquis  de  Beaulieu, 
TuE  CuRis  OF  Sainte-Marie  de  Rni,  a  Vendean  priest. 


adherents  of  Danton. 


BLANCHE  DE  BEAULIEU. 


I. 


Whoever,  during  the  evening  of  December  15,  1793, 
had  started  from  the  little  town  of  Clisson  to  go  to  the 
village  of  Saint-Crepin,  and  had  halted  on  the  crest  of 
the  mountain  at  whose  foot  flows  the  river  La  Moine, 
would  have  seen  a  curious  spectacle  on  the  other  side  of 
the  valley. 

In  the  first  place,  at  the  spot  where  his  eyes  would 
have  sought  the  village  among  the  trees,  against  an 
horizon  already  darkened  by  the  twilight,  he  would 
have  noticed  three  or  four  columns  of  smoke,  which, 
isolated  at  their  bases,  joined  as  they  spread  out,  swayed 
a  moment  like  a  bronzed  dome,  then,  yielding  gracefully 
to  a  damp,  westerly  breeze,  floated  to  the  eastward,  con- 
founded with  the  low-lying,  hazy  clouds.  He  would 
have  seen  the  smoke  redden  slowly,  then  disappear 
altogether,  while  from  the  roofs  of  the  houses  sharp 
tongues  of  flame  darted  in  its  place  with  a  dull  roar, 
now  twisting  about  in  spiral  columns,  now  bending  and 
rising  again  like  the  mast  of  a  ship.  It  would  have 
seemed  to  him  as  if  all  the  windows  would  open  soon  to 
vomit  fire.  From  time  to  time,  as  a  roof  fell  in,  he 
would  have  heard  a  smothered  crash,  he  would   have 


364  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 

distinguished  a  more  vivid  flame,  accompanied  by 
myriads  of  sparks,  and  would  have  seen,  in  the  blood- 
red  light  of  the  conflagration,  arms  glistening  and  a 
circle  of  soldiers  extending  around  the  village.  He 
■would  have  heard  cries  and  laughter,  and  he  would  have 
said  to  himself  in  dismay,  "God  forgive  me,  an  army 
is  warming  itself  with  a  village!  " 

In  fact,  a  republican  brigade  of  twelve  or  fifteen  hun- 
dred men  had  found  the  village  of  Saint-Crepin  aban- 
doned and  had  set  fire  to  it. 

It  was  not  cruelty,  it  was  one  method  of  carrying  on 
war,  —  a  plan  of  campaign,  like  any  other;  experience 
proved  that  it  was  the  only  judicious  one. 

There  was  one  isolated  cottage,  however,  that  was  not 
burned;  it  seemed,  indeed,  as  if  all  necessary  precau- 
tions had  been  taken  to  prevent  the  fire  reaching  it. 
Two  sentinels  were  on  guard  at  the  door,  and  every 
moment  orderlies  and  aides-de-camp  entered,  coming 
out  again  almost  immediately  with  orders. 

He  who  issued  the  orders  was  a  young  man,  apparently 
of  some  twenty  to  twenty-two  years  of  age.  Long,  fair 
hair,  parted  on  the  forehead,  fell  in  wavy  locks  on 
either  side  of  his  thin  white  cheeks;  his  whole  face 
bore  the  imprint  of  that  fatal  melancholy  that  is  stamped 
upon  the  brow  of  those  who  are  destined  to  die  young. 
The  blue  cloak  in  which  he  was  enveloped  did  not  con- 
ceal his  person  so  thoroughly  that  you  could  not  see  the 
insignia  of  his  rank,  the  epaulets  of  a  general;  but  the 
epaulets  were  of  wool,  the  republican  officers  having 
patriotically  offered  the  Convention  all  the  gold  on  their 
coats.  He  was  leaning  over  a  table  on  which  a  map  was 
spread;  he  was  marking  thereon  with  a  pencil,  by  the 
light  of  a  lamp  which  paled  in  the  glare  of  the  confla- 
gration, the  road   his  troops  were   to  follow.     It  was 


BLANCHE  DE   BEAULIEF.  365 

General  Marceau,  who  was  destined  to  be  killed  three 
years  later  at  Altenkirchen. 

"Alexandre!"  he  said,  half  rising,  "Alexandre! 
you  everlasting  sleeper,  are  you  dreaming  of  Santo 
Domingo  that  you  sleep  so  soundly  1  " 

"What  is  it?"  said  the  person  thus  apostrophized, 
springing  to  his  feet  with  a  start,  his  head  almost 
touching  the  ceiling  of  the  cabin;  "what  is  it?  is  the 
enemy  upon  \is?  " 

The  words  were  uttered  with  a  slight  Creole  accent, 
which  preserved  their  sweetness  despite  their  menacing 
tone. 

"No;  an  order  from  General-in-Chief  Westermann 
has  arrived." 

And  while  his  colleague  was  reading  the  order,  —  for 
the  person  he  addressed  was  his  colleague, — -Marceau 
gazed  with  childish  curiosity  at  the  muscular  form  of 
the  herculean  mulatto  who  stood  before  him. 

He  was  a  man  of  twenty-eight,  with  short,  curly  hair, 
dark  complexion,  open  forehead,  and  white  teeth,  whose 
almost  superhuman  strength  was  known  throughout  the 
army,  which  had  seen  him,  on  a  day  of  battle,  cut 
through  a  helmet  to  the  cuirass,  and  on  a  day  of  parade 
smother  between  his  legs  a  horse  that  was  running  away 
with  him.  He  also  had  not  long  to  live;  but,  less 
fortunate  than  Marceau,  he  was  fated  to  die  far  from  the 
field  of  battle,  poisoned  by  order  of  a  king.  It  was 
General  Alexandre  Dumas;  it  was  my  father. 

"  Who  brought  you  this  order  1  "  he  asked. 

"  Delmar,  the  representative  of  the  people. " 

"  Very  good.  Where  are  the  poor  devils  to 
assemble  ?  " 

"  In  a  forest  a  league  and  a  half  from  here.  Look  at 
the  map!  there  's  the  place." 


366  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 

"True;  but  on  the  map  we  don't  see  the  ravines,  the 
mountains,  the  felled  trees,  the  thousand  and  one  roads 
that  run  into  and  out  of  the  right  road,  so  that  you  can 
hardly  tell  where  you  are,  even  by  daylight.  Infernal 
country !     And  with  it  all  it 's  always  so  cold !  " 

"  Look  !  "  said  Marceau,  pushing  the  door  open  with 
his  foot,  and  pointing  to  the  burning  village.  "  Go 
out  and  warm  yourself!  Well,  what  have  you  there, 
citizens  1 " 

The  last  words  were  addressed  to  a  group  of  soldiers, 
who,  while  searching  for  supplies,  had  discovered,  in 
a  sort  of  dog  kennel  adjoining  the  cottage,  a  Vendean 
peasant,  who  seemed  to  be  so  drunk  that  it  was  prob- 
able that  he  had  not  been  able  to  accompany  the  people 
of  the  village  when  they  abandoned  it. 

Let  the  reader  imagine  a  farm  laborer  with  a  stupid 
face,  long  hair,  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  and  a  gray  jacket; 
a  creature  made  in  man's  image,  but  a  degree  below  the 
beasts,  —  for  it  was  evident  that  the  mass  lacked  instinct. 
Marceau  asked  him  a  few  questions;  patois  and  wine 
made  his  replies  unintelligible.  He  was  about  to  turn 
him  over  as  a  plaything  to  the  soldiers,  when  General 
Dumas  suddenly  ordered  the  cottage  to  be  cleared,  and 
the  prisoner  locked  in  there.  He  was  still  at  the  door; 
a  soldier  pushed  him  inside;  he  stumbled  across  the 
room  and  leaned  against  the  wall,  swayed  unsteadily 
a  moment  on  his  half-bent  legs,  then  fell  heavily  at 
full  length,  and  lay  motionless  on  the  floor.  A  sentry 
was  posted  at  the  door,  and  they  did  not  even  take  the 
trouble  to  close  the  window. 

"  In  an  hour  we  can  march,"  said  General  Dumas  to 
Marceau;  "  we  have  a  guide." 

«  Who  is  he  1  " 

"That  man." 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU.  367 

"Very  good,  if  we  want  to  start  to-morrow.  There  '3 
twenty-four  hours'  sleep  in  what  that  rascal  has  drunk." 

Dumas  smiled. 

"  Come ,"  he  said.  And  he  led  his  colleague  to  the 
shed  where  the  peasant  had  been  discovered.  A  thin 
partition  separated  it  from  the  interior  of  the  cabin, 
and  the  partition  was  plentifully  supplied  with  cracks, 
which  enabled  one  to  see  what  was  going  on  there,  and 
must  have  made  it  possible  to  hear  every  word  spoken 
by  the  two  generals  who  had  been  there  a  moment 
before. 

"  And  now,"  he  added,  lowering  his  voice,  "  look  !  " 

Marceau  obeyed, yielding  to  the  ascendency  his  friend 
exerted  over  him,  even  in  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life. 
He  had  some  difficulty  in  distinguishing  the  prisoner, 
who,  by  accident,  had  fallen  in  the  darkest  corner  of 
the  cabin.  He  was  still  lying  in  the  same  place,  abso- 
lutely motionless.  Marceau  turned  to  look  for  his 
colleague;  he  had  disappeared. 

When  he  looked  back  into  the  cabin  it  seemed  to  him 
that  the  man  who  occupied  it  had  made  a  slight  move- 
ment; his  head  was  now  in  a  position  which  enabled 
him  to  embrace  the  whole  interior  at  a  glance.  Soon 
he  opened  his  eyes,  with  the  prolonged  yawn  of  one  just 
waking  from  sleep,  and  saw  that  he  was  alone. 

A  singular  expression  of  satisfaction  and  intelligence 
passed  over  his  face. 

From  that  moment  it  became  evident  to  Marceau  that 
he  would  have  been  the  man's  dupe  had  not  a  keener 
glance  than  his  divined  the  truth.  He  examined  him, 
therefore,  with  renewed  attention :  his  face  had  resumed 
its  former  expression,  his  eyes  were  closed,  his  move- 
ments were  those  of  a  man  about  to  fall  asleep  again;  in 
one  of  those  movements  he  kicked  the  fragile  table  on 


368  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 

which  lay  the  map  and  the  order  from  General  Wester* 
mann  which  Marceau  had  thrown  down  there;  every- 
thing fell  to  the  floor;  one  of  the  sentries  opened  the 
door  and  put  his  head  in  at  the  noise,  saw  what  had 
caused  it,  and  said  to  his  companion,  with  a  laugh,  — 

"  It 's  the  citizen,  dreaming." 

The  citizen  heard  the  words,  his  eyes  opened  anew, 
and  a  threatening  glance  followed  the  soldier  for  an 
instant;  then,  with  a  swift  movement,  he  seized  the 
paper  on  which  the  order  was  written,  and  hid  it  in  his 
breast. 

Marceau  held  his  breath ;  his  right  hand  seemed  glued 
to  his  sword  hilt;  his  left  hand  and  his  forehead  sus- 
tained the  weight  of  his  whole  body  as  he  leaned  against 
the  partition. 

The  object  of  his  attention  was  then  lying  on  his  side; 
soon  he  began  to  move  slowly,  helping  himself  along 
with  his  elbow  and  knee,  but  still  in  a  recumbent  posi- 
tion, toward  the  door  of  the  cabin.  The  space  between 
the  threshold  and  the  lower  part  of  the  door  enabled 
hira  to  see  the  legs  of  a  group  of  soldiers  standing  out- 
side; thereupon  he  began,  slowly  and  patiently,  to 
crawl  toward  the  open  window.  When  he  arrived  within 
three  feet  of  it,  he  felt  in  his  breast  for  a  weapon  which 
was  hidden  there,  gathered  his  body  for  a  spring,  and 
with  a  single  leap  —  the  leap  of  a  jaguar  —  sprang  out  of 
the  cabin.  Marceau  uttered  a  cry ;  he  had  had  no  time 
to  foresee  or  prevent  that  manoeuvre.  Another  cry 
answered  his ;  it  was  a  malediction.  The  Vendean,  on 
landing  outside  the  window,  had  found  himself  face  to 
face  with  General  Dumeis.  He  had  tried  to  strike  him 
with  his  knife;  but  the  general,  seizing  his  wrist,  had 
turned  the  knife  against  his  breast,  so  that  he  had  only 
to  push  to  make  the  Vendean  stab  himself. 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU.  369 

"I  promised  you  a  guide,  Marceau;  here  's  one,  and 
an  intelligent  one,  too,  I  fancy.  I  might  order  you 
shot,  knave, "  he  said  to  the  peasant,  "  but  it  suits  my 
purpose  better  to  allow  you  to  live.  You  overheard  our 
conversation,  but  you  won't  report  it  to  them  who  sent 
you.  — Citizens,"  —  he  addressed  the  soldiers  whom  the 
curious  scene  had  attracted,  —  "do  two  of  you  take  a 
hand  each  of  this  man,  and  take  your  places  with  him 
at  the  head  of  the  column:  he  will  be  our  guide;  if 
you  see  that  he  's  leading  you  astray,  or  if  he  makes  a 
motion  to  run  away,  blow  his  brains  out,  and  toss  him 
over  the  hedge. " 

An  order  or  two,  issued  in  a  low  voice,  set  in  motion 
the  broken  line  of  soldiers  encircling  the  ashes  that 
had  been  a  village.  The  groups  lengthened  out,  each 
platoon  seemed  welded  to  the  next.  A  black  line 
formed  and  marched  down  the  long,  sunken  road  that 
runs  from  Saint- Crepin  to  Montfaucon  like  a  wheel  in 
a  rut;  and  when,  a  few  moments  later,  the  moon  looked 
out  from  between  two  clouds,  and  shone  for  a  moment 
on  that  line  of  bayonets  gleaming  noiselessly,  you  would 
have  fancied  that  you  were  looking  iipon  an  immense 
black  serpent  with  steel  scales  crawling  through  the 
darkness. 


370  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 


II. 


A  NIGHT  march  is  a  melancholy  thing  for  an  army. 
War  is  a  tine  thing  on  a  tine  day,  when  the  blue  sky 
looks  down  on  the  melee,  and  crowds  of  people,  stand- 
ing around  the  battlefield  as  on  the  benches  at  a  circus, 
applaud  the  victors;  when  the  quivering  tones  of  the 
brass  instruments  make  the  heart's  courageous  fibres 
vibrate,  when  the  smoke  from  a  thousand  cannon  covers 
you  with  its  shroud,  when  friends  and  enemies  are  there 
to  see  how  nobly  you  meet  death :  it  is  sublime.  But 
at  night!  To  have  no  idea  how  you  will  be  attacked 
or  how  you  are  to  defend  yourself;  to  fall  without  seeing 
who  strikes  you  or  where  the  blow  comes  from ;  to  feel 
those  who  are  still  on  their  feet  stumble  over  you  with- 
out knowing  who  you  are,  and  walk  upon  you!  Ah! 
then  you  do  not  pose  as  a  gladiator;  you  roll,  and 
twist,  and  bite  the  earth,  and  tear  it  with  your  nails: 
it  is  horrible! 

That  is  why  the  army  marched  in  gloom  and  silence ; 
the  soldiers  knew  that  on  either  side  of  the  road  were 
high  hedges,  fields  filled  with  furze  and  broom,  and 
that  at  the  end  of  the  march  there  was  to  be  a  battle, 
—  a  night  battle. 

They  marched  for  about  half  an  hour.  From  time  to 
time,  as  I  have  already  said,  a  moonbeam  filtered  be- 
tween two  clouds,  and  revealed  the  peasant  who  acted 
as  guide  walking  at  the  head  of  the  column,  his  ear 
open  to  the  slightest  sound,  and  still  watched  by  the 
two  soldiers  beside  him.  Sometimes  they  heard  a 
rustling  among  the  leaves  at  the  side  of  the  road.      The 


BLANCHE    DE   BEAULIEU.  371 

head  of  the  column  would  suddenly  halt ;  several  voices 
would  shout,  "  Qui  viva  1 "  There  would  be  no  reply, 
and  the  peasant  would  say,  with  a  laugh, — 

"  It 's  a  hare  leaving  his  form." 

Sometimes  the  two  soldiers  imagined  that  they  saw 
something  they  could  not  clearly  distinguish  moving  in 
front  of  them;  they  would  say  to  each  other,  — 

"Look!" 

And  the  Vendean  would  reply,  — 

"  It 's  your  shadow :  march  on !  " 

Suddenly,  at  a  turn  in  the  road,  they  saw  the  figures 
of  two  men  start  up  in  front  of  them.  They  tried  to  cry 
out.  One  of  them  fell  before  he  could  utter  a  sound; 
the  other  staggered  a  moment,  and  had  only  time  to 
cry, — 

"Help!" 

Twenty  musket  shots  rang  out  on  the  instant;  by  the 
light  of  the  explosion  they  could  distinguish  three  men 
running  away :  one  of  them  staggered  along  the  bank 
beside  the  road,  hoping  to  reach  the  other  side  of  the 
hedge.  They  ran  to  him,  —  he  was  not  the  guide;  they 
questioned  him,  but  he  did  not  reply;  a  soldier  ran  his 
bayonet  through  his  arm  to  see  if  he  was  dead,  — he  was. 

Thereupon  Marceau  became  the  guide.  The  study  he 
had  made  of  the  localities  gave  him  hope  that  he  would 
not  lose  his  way.  In  fact,  after  a  quarter  of  an  hour's 
march  they  discovered  the  dark  mass  of  the  forest. 
There  it  was  that,  according  to  the  notice  the  republi- 
cans had  received,  the  inhabitants  of  several  villages, 
the  remnants  of  several  armies,  some  eighteen  hundred 
men  all  told,  were  to  assemble  to  hear  mass. 

The  two  generals  divided  their  little  force  into  several 
columns,  with  orders  to  surround  the  forest  and  march 
toward  the  centre  by  all  the  paths  leading  in  that  direc- 


372  BLANCHE   DE    BEAULIEU. 

tion;  they  calculated  that  half  an  hour  would  be  suffi- 
cient to  enable  them  to  reach  their  respective  positions. 
One  platoon  halted  at  the  road  that  entered  the  forest 
where  they  approached  it;  the  others  stretched  out  in 
both  directions  to  form  a  circle.  For  a  moment  or  two 
their  measured  tread  could  be  heard ;  it  grew  fainter  and 
fainter,  then  died  away  altogether,  and  everything  was 
silent.  The  half-hour  before  a  battle  passes  quickly. 
The  soldier  hardly  has  time  to  see  if  his  musket  is  well 
primed,  and  to  say  to  his  neighbor,  — 

"  I  have  twenty  or  thirty  francs  in  the  corner  of  my 
knapsack;  if  I  die,  send  them  to  my  mother." 

The  word  "  Forward !  "  rang  out,  and  every  one  jumped 
as  if  he  were  not  expecting  it. 

As  they  advanced,  it  seemed  to  them  that  the  cross- 
roads which  formed  the  centre  of  the  forest  was  lighted ; 
as  they  drew  near  they  could  see  the  flaming  torches; 
soon  objects  became  more  distinct,  and  a  spectacle  that 
no  one  of  them  had  conceived  was  offered  to  their 
gaze. 

Upon  an  altar,  roughly  made  of  stones  piled  together, 
the  cur^  of  Sainte-Marie  de  Rhe  was  saying  mass;  old 
men  stood  around  the  altar,  torch  in  hand,  and  all  about 
them  knelt  women  and  children  praying.  Between  the 
republicans  and  that  group  a  wall  of  men  was  stationed, 
and  presented  the  same  plan  of  battle  for  defence,  on  a 
narrower  base,  as  that  adopted  for  the  attack.  It  would 
have  been  evident  enough  that  they  had  been  warned, 
even  if  the  guide  who  had  fled  had  not  been  a  promi- 
nent figure  in  the  front  rank;  now  he  was  a  Vendean 
soldier  in  full  uniform,  wearing  on  the  left  breast  the 
red  cloth  heart  which  was  used  as  a  ral lying-sign,  and 
on  the  hat  the  white  handkerchief  which  took  the  place 
of  a  plume. 


BLANCHE  DE   BEAULIEU.  373 

The  Vendeans  did  not  wait  to  be  attacked;  they  had 
stationed  sharp-shooters  in  the  woods,  and  began  the 
firing.  The  republicans  marched  on,  with  their  muskets 
ready,  but  without  firing  a  shot,  without  replying  to 
the  constant  fire  of  their  enemies,  without  speaking, 
except  to  say,  after  each  discharge,  — 

**  Close  up !  close  up !  " 

The  priest  had  not  fiuished  his  mass,  and  he  kept  on; 
his  flock  seemed  unconscious  of  what  was  taking  place, 
and  remained  on  their  knees.  The  republican  troops 
continued  to  advance.  When  they  were  within  thirty 
paces  of  the  enemy ,  the  front  rank  knelt  on  one  knee ; 
three  lines  of  muskets  were  lowered  like  grain  bent  by 
the  wind.  The  word  to  fire  was  given :  they  saw  the 
light  through  the  Vendean  ranks,  and  some  bullets, 
passing  through,  struck  down  women  and  children  at 
the  foot  of  the  altar.  For  a  moment  there  was  a  great 
outcry  and  confusion  in  the  assemblage.  The  priest 
raised  the  host,  all  heads  were  bowed  to  the  earth,  and 
all  was  silence  once  more. 

The  republicans  discharged  a  second  volley  at  ten 
paces,  as  calmly  as  at  a  review,  with  as  much  precision 
as  if  they  were  firing  at  a  target.  The  Vendeans  replied, 
and  after  that  neither  side  had  time  to  reload;  it  was 
the  bayonet's  turn,  and  here  all  the  advantage  lay  with 
the  republicans,  who  were  regularly  armed.  The  priest 
continued  to  say  mass. 

The  Vendeans  fell  back;  whole  ranks  fell,  with  no 
sound  save  muttered  maledictions.  The  priest  saw 
what  was  happening;  he  made  a  sign,  —  the  torches 
were  extinguished,  and  the  battle  was  continued  in  the 
darkness.  Thereafter  it  was  simply  a  scene  of  disorder 
and  carnage,  in  which  every  one  struck  without  seeing 
where   he   struck,  savagely,  and   died   without   asking 


374  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 

quarter,  wliicli  is  seldom  given  when  the  request  is 
made  and  answered  in  the  same  tongue. 

But  the  words,  "Mercy!  mercy!"  were  uttered  in  a 
heartrending  tone  at  Marceau's  knees,  as  his  sword  was 
raised  to  strike. 

It  was  a  young  Vendean,  a  mere  child,  unarmed,  who 
was  trying  to  escape  from  the  horrible  mMee.  "  Mercy  ! 
mercy !  "  he  exclaimed;  "  in  Heaven's  name,  in  the  name 
of  your  mother !  " 

The  general  led  him  a  few  yards  away  from  the  battle- 
field, to  remove  him  from  the  glances  of  his  soldiers; 
but  he  was  soon  compelled  to  stop :  the  young  man  had 
fainted.  Such  excessive  terror  on  the  part  of  a  soldier 
astonished  the  general ;  he  was  none  the  less  zealous  in 
his  efforts  to  assist  him;  he  opened  his  coat  to  give  him 
air:  it  was  a  woman. 

There  was  not  an  instant  to  lose;  the  Convention's 
orders  were  precise.  Every  Vendean  taken  under  arms, 
or  present  at  a  meeting,  whatever  his  or  her  sex  or  age, 
was  to  perish  on  the  scaffold.  He  seated  the  girl  at  the 
foot  of  a  tree  and  hurried  back  to  the  field  of  battle. 
Among  the  dead  he  noticed  a  young  republican  officer 
whose  figure  seemed  to  him  to  be  almost  the  same  as 
the  stranger's;  he  speedily  removed  his  coat  and  his 
hat,  and  returned  to  the  Vendean. 

The  cool  night  air  soon  restored  her  to  conscious- 
ness. 

"  Father !  father !  "  were  her  first  words. 

Then  she  rose  and  pressed  her  hands  against  her  fore- 
head as  if  to  collect  her  thoughts. 

"  Oh  !  it  is  terrible !  I  was  with  him ,  and  I  deserted 
him.     Father,  father!     He  must  be  dead!  " 

"  Mademoiselle  Blanche,  young  mistress,"  said  a  man 
whose  head  suddenly  appeared   behind  the  tree,  "  the 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU.  375 

Marquis  de  Beaulieu  lives;  he  is  saved.  Vive  le  roi 
and  the  good  cause !  " 

The  man  who  said  these  words  disappeared  like  a 
ghost,  but  not  so  quickly  that  Marceau  had  not  time  to 
recognize  the  peasant  of  Saint-Crepin. 

"  Tinguy,  Tinguy!  "  cried  the  girl,  putting  out  her 
arms  to  the  farmer. 

"  Silence !  "  said  the  general ;  "  a  single  word  will 
betray  you.  I  could  not  save  you  then,  and  I  wish  to 
save  you.     Put  on  this  hat  and  coat  and  wait  here." 

He  returned  to  the  battlefield,  gave  orders  for  the 
troops  to  fall  back  upon  Cholet,  left  his  colleague  in 
command,  and  returned  to  the  young  Vendean. 

He  found  her  ready  to  go  with  him.  They  walked 
together  toward  a  sort  of  high-road,  where  Marceau's 
servant  was  waiting  with  horses,  which  could  not  go 
into  the  heart  of  the  country  where  the  roads  are  naught 
but  ravines  and  bogs.  There  his  embarrassment  re- 
doubled. He  feared  that  his  young  companion  would 
not  know  how  to  ride, and  had  not  the  strength  to  walk; 
but  she  soon  reassured  him  by  the  way  in  which  she 
managed  her  mount,  with  less  strength,  to  be  sxire,  but 
with  as  much  grace  and  address  as  the  best  horseman.* 

She  saw  Marceau's  surprise  and  smiled. 

"You  will  be  less  astonished,"  said  she,  "when  you 
know  me.     You  will  see  by  what  chain  of  circumstances 


*  Even  if  what  follows  should  not  explain  this  skill,  which  is 
rare  among  us  in  a  woman,  the  custom  of  the  province  would  jus- 
tify it.  Even  the  ladies  of  the  chateaux  ride,  literally  speaking, 
like  a  Longchamps  dandy ;  but  they  wear  under  their  dresses, 
which  the  saddle  raises,  trousers  like  those  worn  by  children. 
The  women  of  the  lower  classes  do  not  take  even  that  precaution, 
although  the  color  of  their  skin  led  me  for  a  long  time  to  think  the 
contrary.  —  (Author's  note.) 


876  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 

manly  exercises  have  become  familiar  to  me;  you  seem 
so  kind  that  I  will  tell  you  the  whole  story  of  ray  life, 
which  has  been  so  full  of  trouble,  young  as  I  am." 

"Yes,  yes,  but  later,"  said  Marceau;  "we  shall  have 
time  enough,  for  you  are  my  prisoner,  and  for  your  own 
sake  I  do  not  propose  to  restore  your  liberty.  What  we 
have  to  do  now  is  to  get  to  Cholet  as  fast  as  we  can. 
So  sit  firmly  in  your  saddle,  and  put  your  horse  to  the 
gallop,  my  cavalier!  " 

"  Gallop  it  is  I  "  rejoined  the  Vendean. 

Three  quarters  of  an  hour  later  they  arrived  at  Cholet. 
The  commanding  general  was  at  the  mayor's  office. 
Marceau  went  up,  leaving  his  servant  and  his  prisoner 
at  the  door.  He  made  a  report  of  his  expedition  in  a 
few  words,  and  went  with  his  little  party  to  seek  quar- 
ters at  the  Hotel  des  Sans-Culottes,  a  name  which  had 
replaced  on  the  sign  the  words,  "  Au  Grand  Saint- 
Nicolas.  " 

Marceau  took  two  rooms.  He  escorted  the  young  woman 
to  one  of  them,  urged  her  to  lie  down  without  undress- 
ing and  snatch  a  few  moments'  rest,  which  she  must 
sadly  need  after  the  horrible  night  she  had  passed,  and 
then  shut  himself  into  his  own  room;  for  now  he  had 
the  responsibility  of  another  life  on  his  hands,  and  he 
must  needs  think  of  the  means  of  preserving  it. 

Blanche,  too,  had  food  for  thought  in  plenty:  in  the 
first  place  her  father,  and  secondly  this  young  repub- 
lican with  the  sweet  face  and  voice.  It  all  seemed  like 
a  dream  to  her.  She  walked  about  her  room  to  make 
sure  that  she  was  really  awake,  pausing  in  front  of  a 
mirror  to  convince  herself  that  it  was  really  she.  Then 
she  wept  as  she  thought  of  her  desolate  position.  The 
idea  of  death  —  of  death  on  the  scaffold  —  did  not  occur 
to  her;  Marceau  had  said,  in  his  gentle  voice,  — 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU.  377 

"I  will  save  you." 

And,  after  all ,  why  should  she ,  born  only  yesterday, 
be  put  to  death?  Lovely,  inoffensive  creature  that  she 
was,  why  should  men  demand  her  head  and  her  blood? 
She  could  hardly  believe  that  she  was  in  any  danger. 
Her  father,  on  the  contrary,  a  Vendean  leader,  killed 
others,  and  might  be  killed;  but  she,  a  poor  girl,  whose 
hand  had  but  just  quitted  the  grasp  of  childhood!  Ah! 
far  from  being  disturbed  by  evil  omens,  life  seemed 
joyous  and  fair  to  her,  the  future  boundless;  the  war 
would  come  to  an  end,  the  empty  chateau  would  be 
filled  with  guests  once  more.  Some  day  a  young  man, 
worn  by  fatigue,  would  seek  hospitality  there;  he  would 
be  twenty-four  or  twenty-five  years  old ,  have  a  sweet 
voice,  fair  hair,  and  a  general's  uniform,  and  he  would 
remain  there  a  long  while. —  Dream  on,  dream  on,  poor 
Blanche ! 

There  is  a  period  of  youth  when  misfortune  seems  so 
incongruous  with  life  that  it  seems  that  it  can  neve? 
gain  a  footing  there;  however  melancholy  a  thought 
may  be,  it  ends  with  a  smile.  It  is  because  we  see  life 
from  only  one  side  of  the  horizon ;  the  past  has  not  yet 
had  time  to  make  us  doubt  the  future. 

Marceau  also  was  dreaming;  but  he  already  knew 
something  of  life.  He  was  familiar  with  the  political 
antipathies  of  the  moment;  he  knew  the  exigencies  of 
a  revolution ;  he  was  trying  to  devise  a  means  of  saving 
Blanche,  who  was  sleeping.  A  single  expedient  sug- 
gested itself  to  him :  that  was  to  escort  her  himself  to 
Nantes,  where  his  family  lived.  He  had  not  seen  his 
mother  or  sister  in  three  years,  and  being  within  a  few 
leagues  of  the  town,  it  seemed  quite  natural  that  he 
should  apply  to  the  commanding  general  for  leave  of 
absence.     He  resolved  tc  act  upon  that  idea.     The  day 


378  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 

was  just  breaking;  he  repaired  to  General  Westermann's 
quarters,  and  his  request  was  granted  without  hesitation. 
He  asked  that  the  necessary  papers  be  given  him  at 
once,  thinking  that  Blanche  could  not  start  too  soon;  it 
was  essential  that  the  furlough  should  bear  a  second 
signature,  that  of  the  representative  of  the  people, — 
Delmar.  He  had  arrived  only  a  half-hour  before  with 
despatches;  he  was  taking  a  few  moments'  sleep  in  the 
adjoining  room,  and  the  general  promised  to  send 
Marceau  the  document  as  soon  as  he  awoke. 

On  entering  the  inn,  he  met  General  Dumas,  for 
whom  he  Avas  looking.  The  two  friends  had  no  secrets 
from  each  other;  the  elder  was  soon  made  acquainted 
with  the  whole  adventure.  While  breakfast  was  being 
prepared,  Marceau  went  up  to  his  prisoner's  room, learn- 
ing that  she  had  already  asked  for  him ;  he  announced  a 
visit  from  his  colleague,  who  was  not  slow  to  present 
himself.  His  first  words  reassured  Blanche,  and,  after 
a  moment's  conversation,  she  felt  nothing  more  than  the 
inevitable  embarrassment  of  a  young  girl  with  two  men 
whom  she  hardly  knows. 

They  were  about  to  take  their  seats  at  the  table,  when 
the  door  opened.  Delmar,  the  representative  of  the 
people,  appeared  on  the  threshold. 

We  had  no  time,  at  the  beginning  of  the  narrative,  to 
say  a  word  concerning  this  new  personage. 

He  was  one  of  those  men  whom  Robespierre  used 
like  an  arm  at  the  end  of  his  own  to  enable  him  to 
reach  into  the  provinces;  who  believed  that  they  under- 
stood his  system  of  regeneration  because  he  said  to  them, 
"  We  must  regenerate ;  "  and  in  whose  hands  the  guillo- 
tine was  more  active  than  intelligent. 

The  sinister  apparition  made  Blanche  tremble,  even 
before  she  knew  who  he  was. 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU.  379 

*  Aha !  "  said  he  to  Marceau,  "  so  you  want  to  leave 
us  already,  citizen-general  ?  But  you  behaved  so  well 
last  night  that  I  can  refuse  you  notliing.  I  am  a  little 
inclined  to  find  fault  with  you,  however,  for  having 
allowed  the  Marquis  de  Beaulieu  to  escape;  I  had 
promised  the  Convention  to  send  them  his  head." 

Blanche  was  standing,  pale  and  cold  as  a  statue  of 
Terror.     Marceau  unconcernedly  stood  in  front  of  her. 

"  But  a  thing  postponed  is  not  abandoned,"  continued 
Delmar.  "  The  republican  greyhounds  have  a  good  nose 
and  good  teeth,  and  we  are  on  liis  trail.  Here  is  your 
furlough,"  he  added.  "  It  is  all  right,  and  you  can  start 
when  you  choose.  But  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to  invite 
me  to  breakfast  first;  I  could  not  bear  to  part  with  such 
a  gallant  fellow  as  you  are  without  drinking  to  the 
health  of  the  Republic  and  the  extermination  of  the 
brigands. " 

In  the  position  then  occupied  by  the  two  generals  this 
mark  of  esteem  was  anything  but  agreeable  to  them. 
Blanche  had  taken  her  seat  and  recovered  her  courage 
in  some  degree.  They  took  their  places,  and  the  young 
girl,  in  order  not  to  sit  opposite  Del  mar,  was  obliged  to 
sit  beside  him.  She  sat  far  enough  away  from  him  not 
to  touch  him,  and  gradually  became  more  at  ease  as  she 
noticed  that  the  representative  of  the  people  paid  more 
attention  to  the  meal  than  to  those  who  partook  of  it 
with  him.  From  time  to  time,  however,  a  sanguinary 
word  or  two  fell  from  his  lips,  and  sent  a  shudder 
through  the  girl's  veins.  But,  after  all,  there  seemed  to 
be  no  real  danger  for  her;  the  generals  hoped  that  he 
would  leave  them  without  addressing  her  a  word  directly. 
The  desire  to  start  afforded  Marceau  a  pretext  for  hurry- 
ing through  the  meal.  It  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and 
they  were  all  beginning  to  breathe  more  at  ease,  when 


880  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEIT. 

a  discharge  of  musketry  was  heard  on  the  public  squaie 
in  front  of  the  inn;  the  generals  jumped  for  their 
weapons,  which  they  had  laid  aside.  Delmar  stopped 
them. 

"Good,  my  brave  fellows!"  he  said,  laughing,  and 
balancing  himself  on  the  legs  of  his  chair,  —  "  good ! 
I  like  to  see  that  you  are  on  your  guard;  but  come  back 
to  the  table,  —  there  's  nothing  for  you  to  do  out  there." 

"  What  is  the  noise  ?  "  Marceau  asked. 

"Nothing,"  said  Delmar;  "last  night's  prisoners 
being  shot." 

Blanche  uttered  a  cry  of  horror. 

"  Oh,  the  wretches !  "  she  cried. 

Delmar  put  down  his  glass,  which  he  was  about  to 
put  to  his  lips,  and  slowly  turned  toward  her. 

"  Ah !  this  is  a  fine  state  of  things, "  he  said ;  "  if 
soldiers  tremble  like  women,  we  must  make  the  women 
soldiers.  To  be  sure,  you  're  very  young,"  he  added, 
taking  both  her  hands  and  looking  her  in  the  face ;  "  but 
you  will  get  used  to  it." 

"Oh,  never!  never!"  cried  Blanche,  without  reflect- 
ing how  dangerous  it  was  for  her  to  manifest  her  feel- 
ings before  such  a  witness.  "  I  shall  never  get  used  to 
such  horrors." 

"My  child,"  rejoined  Delmar,  releasing  her  hands, 
"  do  you  think  that  a  nation  can  be  regenerated  without 
some  blood-letting,  that  factions  can  be  put  down  with- 
out erecting  scaffolds?  Did  you  ever  see  a  revolution 
pass  the  level  of  equality  over  a  people  without  taking 
off  some  heads?  Woe  to  the  great  at  such  times,  for 
the  staff  of  Tarquin  has  marked  them  out!  " 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  then  continued,  — 

"After  all,  what  is  death?  A  dreamless  sleep,  with- 
out  an   awakening.      What  is   blood?     A   red    liquor 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEIT.  381 

almost  like  that  contained  in  this  hottle,  which  pro- 
duces no  effect  on  our  minds  except  because  of  the  idea 
we  attach  to  it.  Sombreuil  drank  it.  Well,  have  you 
nothing  to  say?  Come,  haven't  you  any  philanthropic 
argument  at  your  tongue's  end?  A  Girondin  in  your 
place  wouldn't  lack  an  abundance  of  them." 

Blanche  was  compelled,  therefore,  to  continue  the 
conversation. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  trembling,  "  are  you  quite  sure  that 
God  has  given  you  the  right  to  strike  thus  ?  " 

"  Does  not  God  himself  strike  ?  " 

**  Yes,  but  He  looks  beyond  life,  while  man,  when  hd 
kills,  knows  neither  what  he  gives  nor  what  he  takes 
away." 

"  Very  good.  The  soul  is  immortal  or  it  is  not;  if  the 
tody  is  only  dust,  is  it  a  crime  to  restore  to  dust  a  little 
sooner  what  God  borrowed  of  it?  If  a  soul  inhabits  it, 
•nd  that  soul  is  immortal,  I  cannot  kill  it;  the  body  is 
only  a  garment  which  I  remove  from  it,  or,  rather,  n 
prison  from  which  I  set  it  free.  Kow,  listen  to  my 
advice,  for  I  propose  to  give  you  some  advice:  keep 
your  philosophical  reflections  and  your  schoolboy  argu- 
ments to  defend  your  own  life,  if  ever  you  fall  into 
Charette's  hands  or  Bernard  de  Marigny's,  for  they 
would  show  you  no  more  mercy  than  I  have  shown  their 
men.  As  for  myself,  you  might  possibly  have  reason 
to  repent  repeating  them  in  my  presence:  remember." 

He  went  out. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Marceau  laid  aside 
his  pistols,  which  he  had  cocked  during  this  conver- 
sation. 

"  By  my  soul!  "  he  said,  pointing  after  him  with  his 
finger,"  never  was  man  so  near  death  without  suspecting 
it  as  you  were  just  now! — Do  you  know,  Blanche, 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 

that  if  a  word  or  a  gesture  had  escaped  him,  indicating 
that  he  recognized  you,  I  would  have  blown  out  his 
brains  ?  " 

She  was  not  listening.  A  single  thought  had  posses- 
sion of  her  mind :  that  that  man  was  under  instructions 
to  pursue  the  remnant  of  the  army  commanded  by  the 
Marquis  de  Beaulieu. 

"  O  my  God! "  she  said, hiding  her  face  in  her  hands. 
"0  my  God!  when  I  think  that  my  father  may  fall 
into  that  tiger's  hands;  that,  if  he  had  been  taken 
prisoner  last  night,  it  is  possible  that  he  might  now  be  — 
It  is  execrable,  it  is  atrocious!  is  there  no  longer  any 
pity  in  the  world  ?  —  Oh,  forgive  me,  forgive  me !  "  she 
said  to  Marceau.  "  Who  has  more  reason  than  I  to  know 
the  contrary?     My  God!  my  God!  " 

At  that  moment  the  servant  entered,  and  announced 
that  the  horses  were  ready. 

"  Let  us  go,  in  Heaven's  name !  there  is  blood  in  the 
air  we  breathe  here." 

"  Let  us  go,"  echoed  Marceau. 

And  all  three  went  down  the  stairs  together. 


BLANCHE  DB   BEAULIEU.  383 


III. 


Marceau  found  at  the  door  a  detachment  of  thirty  horse, 
whom  the  commanding  general  had  ordered  under  arms 
to  escort  him  to  Nantes.  Dumas  accompanied  them 
for  some  distance ;  but  about  a  league  from  Cholet  his 
friend  insisted  that  he  should  return;  if  he  should  go 
farther  it  would  be  dangerous  for  him  to  return  alone. 
So  he  took  leave  of  them  and  galloped  back,  soon  pass- 
ing out  of  sight  at  a  turn  in  the  road. 

Then,  too,  Marceau  wished  to  be  left  alone  with  the 
young  Vendean.  She  had  the  story  of  her  life  to  tell 
him,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  story  must  be  a 
deeply  interesting  one.  He  therefore^  rode  up  beside 
Blanche. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  now  that  we  are  left  to  ourselves, 
and  have  a  long  ride  before  us,  let  us  talk.  Let  us  talk 
of  you.  I  know  who  you  are,  but  that  is  all.  How 
came  you  to  be  at  that  meeting?  How  did  you  acquire 
the  habit  of  wearing  man's  clothes?  Speak!  we  soldiers 
are  accustomed  to  hear  only  sharp,  stern  words.  Talk 
to  me  a  long  while  of  yourself,  of  your  childhood,  I  beg 

you." 

Marceau,  without  knowing  why,  could  not  accustom 
himself  to  use  the  republican  form  of  speech  of  the  time 
in  addressing  Blanche. 

Thereupon  Blanche  told  him  of  her  life:  how  her 
mother  had  died  young,  and  left  her,  a  mere  child,  to 
the  care  of  the  Marquis  de  Beaulieu ;  how  her  educa- 
tion, guided  by  a  man,  had  made   her   familiar  with 


384  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 

exercises  which,  when  the  insurrection  hroke  out  in  La 
Vendee,  had  proved  so  useful  to  her,  and  had  enabled 
her  to  accompany  her  father.  She  described  all  the 
events  of  the  war,  from  the  emeute  at  Saint-Florent 
down  to  the  combat  in  which  Marceau  had  saved  her 
life.  She  talked  a  long  while,  as  he  had  asked  her,  for 
she  saw  that  it  gave  him  pleasure  to  listen.  Just  as 
she  finished  her  narrative,  Nantes  appeared  on  the 
horizon,  its  lights  trembling  in  the  haze.  The  little 
party  crossed  the  Loire,  and  a  few  moments  later  Marceau 
was  in  his  mother's  arms. 

After  the  first  greetings  he  presented  to  his  family  his 
young  travelling  companion;  a  few  words  sufficed  to 
arouse  the  lively  interest  of  his  mother  and  sisters. 
Blanche  had  no  sooner  expressed  a  wish  to  resume  the 
garments  of  her  sex  than  the  two  girls  led  her  away, 
and  disputed  with  each  other  the  pleasure  of  acting  as 
her  lady's  maid. 

This  conduct,  simple  as  it  may  appear  at  first  sight, 
acquired  a  great  value  by  reason  of  the  existing  circum- 
stances. Nantes  was  writhing  under  the  proconsulate 
of  Carrier. 

It  was  a  strange  spectacle  for  the  mind  as  well  as  for 
the  eyes,  —  the  spectacle  of  a  whole  city  bleeding  from 
the  bites  of  a  single  man.  We  wonder  what  can  be  the 
source  of  the  power  that  one  will  exerts  over  eighty 
thousand  individuals  whom  it  dominates,  and  how  it  is 
that,  when  a  single  man  says:  "I  wish  it!"  all  the 
others  do  not  rise  and  say :  "  Very  good !  but  we  do  not 
wish  it !  "  The  fact  is  that  servility  becomes  a  fixed 
habit  in  the  mind  of  the  masses,  and  that  only  individ- 
uals sometimes  have  a  burning  desire  to  be  free.  As 
Shakespeare  says,  the  people  know  no  other  way  of 
rewarding  Caesar's  assassin  than  by  making  him  Caesar, 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIETJ.  385 

That  is  why  there  are  tyrants  of  liberty  as  there  are 
tyrants  of  monarchy. 

And  so  blood  was  flowing  in  the  streets  of  Nantes, 
and  Carrier,  who  was  to  Kobespierre  what  the  hyena 
is  to  tlie  tiger  and  the  jackal  to  tlie  lion,  gorged  himself 
with  the  purest  of  that  blood,  pending  the  time  when 
he  should  give  it  back,  mingled  with  his  own. 

There  were  new  methods  of  massacre.  The  guillo- 
tine became  notched  and  blunted  so  quickly  !  He  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  the  noyades,  Avhose  name  has  become 
inseparable' from  his;  boats  were  built  for  the  purpose 
in  the  harbor, — people  knew  for  what  purpose  and 
went  to  look  at  them  on  the  ways.  It  was  a  novel  and 
interesting  thing  to  see  the  airholes  twenty  feet  long, 
which  opened  so  as  to  drop  into  the  sea  the  wretched 
creatures  set  apart  for  tliat  form  of  punishment;  and,  on 
the  fatal  day,  when  they  were  tried,  there  were  almost 
as  many  people  on  the  bank  as  when  a  vessel  is  launched 
with  a  wreath  about  its  mainmast,  and  flags  on  every 
yard. 

Oh !  woe  thrice  over  to  the  men  who,  like  Carrier, 

have  exerted  their  imaginations  in  inventing  variations 

upon  death ;  for  every  method  of  destroying  man  comes 

easily   to   man!     Woe    to   those    who,  acting    upon    no 

theory,  have  committed  useless  murders!     They  are  the 

ones   who   cause  our   mothers  to   tremble  at  the  words 

revolution  and  rejjublic,  inseparable  in  their  minds  from 

massacre  and  destruction;   and  our  mothers   make    us 

men,  and  who  among  us,  as  he   went   forth   from  his 

mother's  hands  at  fifteen,  did  not  shudder,  too,  at  the 

words  revolution  and  republic  ?  which  of  us  has  not  had 

to  make  over  his  whole   political  education   before   he 

dared  look  coolly  upon   that  date  which   he   had  long 

looked  upon  as   fatal, —  93?  which   of    us    has   not  re- 

24 


386  BLANCHE  DE   BEAULIEF. 

quired  to  put  forth  all  his  strength  as  a  man  of  twenty- 
five  to  look  in  the  face  the  three  colossi  of  the  Revolu- 
tion,—  Mirabeau,  Danton,  Robespierre?  But  at  last 
we  have  become  accustomed  to  the  sight  of  them ;  we 
have  studied  the  ground  on  which  they  walked,  the 
principles  on  which  they  acted,  and  involuntarily  we 
have  recalled  these  awful  words  of  another  time:  Each 
of  them  fdl  because  he  sought  to  put  a  drag  on  the 
executioner^ s  tumbril,  which  still  had  work  to  do.  They 
did  not  outstrip  the  Revolution;  the  Revolution  out- 
stripped them. 

Let  us  not  complain,  however;  rehabilitation  is 
quickly  accomplished  in  these  days,  for  now  the  people 
write  the  history  of  the  people.  It  Avas  not  so  in  the 
time  of  Messieurs  the  historiographers  of  the  crown; 
did  I  not  hear  it  said  when  I  was  a  child,  that  Louis  XI. 
was  a  bad  king,  and  Louis  XIV.  a  great  prince? 

Let  us  return  to  Marceau  and  a  family  whom  his 
name  protected  even  against  Carrier.  The  young  gen- 
eral's reputation  for  republicanism  was  so  pure  that 
suspicion  had  not  dared  attack  his  mother  and  sisters. 
That  is  why  one  of  them,  a  girl  of  sixteen,  as  if  she 
were  entirely  ignorant  of  what  was  taking  place  about 
her,  loved  and  was  loved,  and  Marceau's  mother,  timid 
as  a  mother,  seeing  in  a  husband  an  additional  protector, 
hurried  on  as  much  as  she  could  a  marriage  which  was 
on  the  point  of  being  celebrated  when  Marceau  and  the 
young  Vendean  arrived  at  Nantes.  The  general's  return 
at  such  a  moment  was  a  twofold  joy. 

Blanche  was  turned  over  to  the  two  girls,  who  became 
her  friends  as  they  kissed  lier;  for  there  is  an  age  when 
every  girl  imagines  that  she  has  found  a  friend  forever 
in  the  friend  she  has  known  but  an  hour.  They  left 
the  room  together;  a  matter  almost  as  important  as  the 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAL'LIEU.  387 

marriage  itself  filled  their  minds:  the  furnishing  one  of 
their  number  with  clothes,  for  Blanche  did  not  choose 
to  continue  to  wear  her  masculine  garments. 

Soon  they  brought  her  back,  arrayed  in  the  clothes  of 
both;  she  had  had  to  put  on  a  dress  belonging  to  one, 
and  the  other's  shawl.  Foolish  girls!  to  be  sure,  their 
combined  ages  did  not  equal  that  of  Marceau's  mother, 
who  was  still  beautiful. 

When  Blanche  returned,  the  young  general  stepped 
toward  her,  and  halted  in  amazement.  In  the  costume 
she  had  worn  before,  he  had  hardly  noticed  her  celestial 
beauty  and  her  charms,  which  she  had  resumed  with 
her  woman's  garb.  She  had  done  her  utmost,  it  is 
true,  to  appear  pretty:  for  a  moment,  before  her  mirror, 
she  had  forgotten  war,  Vendee,  and  carnage.  The  most 
artless  soul  has  a  coquetry  of  her  own  when  she  begins 
to  love  and  seeks  to  please  the  person  she  loves. 

Marceau  tried  to  speak,  biit  could  not  utter  a  word. 
Blanche  smiled,  and  held  out  her  hand,  overjoyed,  for 
she  saw  that  she  appeared  to  him  as  beautiful  as  she 
wished  to  appear. 

That  evening  the  young  fianc^  of  Marceau's  sister 
came  to  the  house,  and  as  all  love  is  selfish,  from  self- 
love  to  maternal  love,  there  was  one  house  in  the  city 
of  Nantes  where  all  was  happiness  and  joy,  when  round 
about  it  all  was  tears  and  sorrow. 

Ah  !  how  Blanche  and  Marceau  abandoned  themselves 
to  the  delight  of  their  new  life  !  how  far  behind  them 
the  other  life  seemed !  It  was  almost  a  dream.  But 
from  time  to  time  Blanche's  heart  grew  heavy  and  tears 
gushed  from  her  eyes;  it  was  when  the  thought  of  her 
father  came  suddenly  to  her  mind.  Marceau  consoled 
her;  then,  to  divert  her  thoughts,  told  her  of  his  first 
campaigns ;  how  the  schoolboy  had  become  a  soldier  at 


388  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 

fifteen,  an  officer  at  seventeen,  colonel  at  nineteen,  gen- 
eral at  twenty-one.  Blanche  made  him  repeat  the  story 
often;  for  in  all  that  he  said  there  was  no  word  of 
another  love. 

And  yet  Marceau  had  loved,  —  loved  with  all  the 
strength  of  his  heart,  at  least  so  he  thought.  Then  he 
had  heen  deceived,  betrayed;  contempt  had  with  great 
difficulty  found  a  resting-place  in  a  heart  so  young  that 
it  contained  nothing  but  passions.  The  blood  that 
boiled  in  his  veins  had  slowly  cooled,  —  a  melancholy 
coldness  had  taken  the  place  of  exaltation;  in  fact, 
Marceau,  before  he  knew  Blanche,  was  nothing  more 
than  a  sick  man,  deprived,  by  the  sudden  cessation  of 
fever,  of  the  strength  and  energy  which  he  owed  to  its 
presence  alone. 

And  now  all  the  dreams  of  happiness,  all  the  ele- 
ments of  a  new  life,  all  the  joyous  impulses  of  youth, 
which  Marceau  thought  had  vanished  forever  so  far  as 
he  was  concerned,  appeared  again,  still  undefined  in  the 
distance ,  but  where  he  might  hope  to  reach  them  some 
day.  He  himself  was  astonished  to  find  that  a  smile 
came  sometimes  to  his  lips  without  apparent  cause;  he 
breathed  with  the  full  force  of  his  lungs,  and  no  longer 
felt  the  tedium  of  living,  which,  only  the  day  before, 
sapped  his  strength  and  made  him  long  for  speedy  death 
as  the  only  barrier  that  grief  cannot  pass. 

Blanche,  for  her  part,  being  drawn  toward  Marceau  at 
first  by  a  natural  feeling  of  gratitude,  attributed  to  that 
feeling  the  varying  emotions  that  agitated  her.  Was  it 
not  a  simple  thing  that  she  should  desire  the  constant 
presence  of  the  man  who  had  saved  her  life?  The 
words  that  fell  from  her  preserver's  lips  could  hardly 
be  indifl'erent  to  her?  Could  his  face,  stamped  with 
such  profound  melancholy,  fail  to  awaken  her  compas' 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU.  389 

sion?  And  when  she  saw  him  sigh  as  he  gazed  at  her, 
was  she  not  always  ready  to  say  to  him :  "  What  can  I 
do  for  you,  my  friend,  who  have  done  so  much  for 
me?" 

Under  the  sway  of  these  varying  sentiments,  which 
gained  fresh  strength  every  day,  Blanche  and  Marceau 
passed  the  first  part  of  their  stay  at  Nantes;  at  last  the 
time  for  the  marriage  of  the  young  general's  sister 
arrived. 

From  among  the  jewels  he  had  ordered  for  her, 
Marceau  selected  a  beautiful  and  valuable  set,  which 
he  offered  to  Blanche.  She  gazed  at  it,  at  first,  with 
girlish  coquetry,  but  soon  she  closed  the  case. 

"Are  jewels  in  harmony  with  my  situation?"  she 
said  sadly.  "  Jewels  for  me  !  while  my  father  is  flying, 
perhaps,  from  farm  to  farm,  begging  for  a  crust  of  bread 
to  keep  him  alive,  and  for  leave  to  seek  shelter  in  a 
barn ;  while  I,  myself  proscribed  —  No ;  let  my  simple 
dress  screen  me  from  observation ;  remember  that  I  may 
be  recognized." 

Marceau  urged  her  in  vain;  she  would  consent  to 
accept  nothing  but  an  artificial  red  rose,  which  she  saw 
among  the  ornaments. 

The  churches  were  closed,  so  that  the  marriage  cere- 
mony was  performed  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  It  was  short 
and  melancholy;  the  young  girls  regretted  the  choir 
decorated  with  candles  and  flowers,  the  canopy  held 
over  the  heads  of  the  young  couple,  beneath  which  the 
laughter  of  those  who  hold  it  is  mingled  with  the  bene- 
diction of  the  priest,  who  says :  "  Go  hence,  my  children, 
and  be  happy  !  " 

At  the  door  of  the  H6tel  de  Ville  a  deputation  of 
watermen  awaited  the  bride  and  groom.  Marceau's 
rank  was  responsible  for  that  mark  of  respect  to  his 


890  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 

sister;  one  of  the  men,  whose  face  seemed  familiar  to 
the  general,  held  two  bouquets:  he  gave  one  to  the 
bride,  then  walked  up  to  Blanche,  who  gazed  fixedly 
at  him,  and  presented  her  with  the  other. 

"  Tinguy,  where  is  my  father?"  she  asked,  turning 
pale. 

"  At  Saint-Florent, "  replied  the  waterman.  "  Take 
this  bouquet;  there  's  a  letter  among  the  flowers.  Vive 
le  roi  and  the  good  cause.  Mademoiselle  Blanche  !  " 

Blanche  tried  to  stop  him,  to  speak  to  him,  to  ques- 
tion him;  he  had  disappeared.  Marceau  recognized  the 
guide,  and,  in  spite  of  himself,  admired  the  peasant's 
devotion,  adroitness  and  audacity. 

Blanche  read  the  letter  with  an  anxious  heart.  The 
Vendeans  were  meeting  with  defeat  after  defeat ;  a  whole 
population  was  leaving  the  country,  recoiling  before  fire 
and  famine.  The  rest  of  the  letter  was  devoted  to  ac  • 
knowledgments  to  Marceau.  The  marquis  had  learned 
everything  through  Tinguy's  watchfulness.  Blanche 
was  depressed;  the  letter  cast  her  back  into  the  midst 
of  the  horrors  of  war;  she  leaned  on  Marceau's  arm 
more  heavily  than  usual,  she  spoke  to  him  more  inti- 
mately and  in  a  softer  voice.  Marceau  would  have 
liked  her  to  be  even  more  depressed;  for  the  deeper  the 
melancholy,  the  more  completely  reserve  is  cast  aside; 
and,  as  I  have  already  said,  there  is  much  selfishness  in 
love. 

During  the  ceremony,  a  stranger,  who  had,  he  said, 
intelligence  of  the  utmost  importance  to  communicate  to 
Marceau,  was  ushered  into  the  salon.  Marceau,  lean- 
ing toward  Blanche,  who  had  his  arm,  did  not  notice 
him  when  he  entered;  but  suddenly  he  felt  her  arm 
tremble,  and  raised  his  head:  they  were  face  to  face 
with  Delmar. 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU.  891 

The  representative  of  the  people  approached  slowly, 
with  his  eyes  fixed  on  Blanche  and  a  smile  playing 
about  his  lips;  Marceau,  his  brow  bathed  in  sweat, 
watched  him  come  forward  as  Don  Juan  watches  the 
statue  of  the  Commander. 

"  Have  you  a  brother,  citizeness  ?  " 

Blanche  stammered  something,  and  was  on  the  point 
of  throwing  herself  into  Marceau's  arms.  Delmar 
continued :  — 

"  If  my  memory  and  your  resemblance  to  him  do  not 
lead  me  astray,  we  breakfasted  together  atCholet.  How 
does  it  happen  that  I  have  not  seen  him  in  the  ranks  of 
the  republican  army  since  that  time  ?  " 

Blanche  felt  that  her  strength  was  deserting  her. 
Delmar's  piercing  eye  watched  the  progress  of  her  con- 
fusion, and  she  was  about  to  quail  beneath  it,  when  it 
turned  from  her  and  fastened  upon  Marceau. 

Then  it  was  Delmar's  turn  to  tremble.  The  young 
general  had  his  hand  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword,  which  he 
grasped  convulsively.  The  face  of  the  representative 
of  the  people  soon  resumed  its  habitual  expression.  He 
seemed  to  have  entirely  forgotten  what  he  had  come  to 
say,  and,  taking  Marceau  by  the  arm,  he  led  him  into 
a  window  recess,  talked  with  him  for  some  minutes 
concerning  the  situation  of  affairs  in  La  Vendee,  and 
informed  him  that  he  had  come  to  Nantes  to  agree  with 
Carrier  as  to  the  new  and  stricter  measures  to  be  adopted 
with  regard  to  the  insurgents.  He  told  him  that 
General  Dumas  had  been  recalled  to  Paris;  and,  taking 
leave  of  him  before  long,  he  passed  with  a  bow  and  a 
smile  the  chair  upon  which  Blanche  had  fallen  when 
she  released  Marceau's  arm,  and  on  which  she  had 
remained,  pale  and  cold. 

Two  hours   later   Marceau   received   orders   to   start 


392  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 

instantly  to  rejoin  the  army  of  the  West  and  resume 
command  of  his  brigade. 

This  sudden  and  unexpected  order  astonished  him; 
he  fancied  that  he  could  detect  some  connection  between 
it  and  the  scene  that  had  taken  place  just  before.  Hia 
furlough  did  not  expire  for  a  fortnight.  He  hurried  to 
Delmar's  lodgings  to  obtain  some  explanation  from  him; 
Delmar  had  left  Nantes  immediately  after  his  interview 
with  Carrier. 

It  was  necessary  to  obey;  to  hesitate  was  to  court 
destruction.  At  that  period  the  generals  were  subject 
to  the  authority  of  the  representative^  of  the  people  sent 
by  the  Convention,  and,  if  some  reverses  were  caused 
by  their  bungling,  more  than  one  victory  was  due  to  the 
alternative  constantly  presented  to  the  leaders,  of  win- 
ning battles  or  losing  their  heads  on  the  scaffold. 

Marceau  was  with  Blanche  when  he  received  the 
order.  Dazed  by  a  blow  so  entirely  unexpected,  he 
had  not  the  courage  to  inform  her  of  his  departure, 
which  would  leave  her  alone  and  defenceless  in  the 
midst  of  a  city  whose  streets  were  watered  every  day  by 
the  blood  of  her  compatriots.  She  noticed  his  embar- 
rassment, and,  as  her  anxiety  conquered  her  bashful- 
ness,  she  drew  near  him  with  the  iinquiet  glance  of  a 
woman  who  knows  that  she  is  beloved  and  has  the  right 
to  ask  questions.  Marceau  handed  her  the  order  he  had 
received.  Blanche  had  no  sooner  cast  her  eyes  upon  it 
than  she  realized  the  peril  to  which  her  protector  would 
be  exposed  by  failure  to  obey;  her  heart  sank  within 
her,  and  yet  she  summoned  courage  to  urge  him  to  go 
without  delay.  Women  have  more  of  that  sort  of  cour- 
age than  men,  because,  in  their  case,  it  is  connected 
with  modesty. 

Marceau  gazed  sadly  at  her. 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU.  393 

"And  do  you  bid  me  go,  Blanche,  — you?  Indeed," 
he  said,  rising,  and  as  if  speaking  to  himself,  "  what 
reason  have  I  to  expect  anything  else  t  Madman  that 
I  was!  When  I  have  thought  of  going  away,  it  has 
occurred  to  me,  sometimes,  that  it  might  cost  her  some 
regret  and  a  few  tears." 

He  strode  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  Madman  !  regret !  tears !  As  if  I  were  not  perfectly 
indifferent  to  her  !  " 

As  he  turned  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
Blanche.  Two  tears  were  rolling  down  the  girl's 
cheeks;  she  did  not  speak,  but  her  breast  rose  and  fell 
with  her  spasmodic  sobs.  Marceau  felt  the  tears  in  his 
eyes,  too. 

"Oh!  forgive  me,"  he  said;  "forgive  me,  Blanche, 
but  I  am  very  unhappy,  and  unhappiness  makes  me 
suspicious.  Living  thus,  beside  you,  my  life  seemed 
to  be  mingled  with  yours;  how  separate  your  hours 
from  my  hours,  my  days  from  your  days?  I  had  for- 
gotten everything;  I  believed  that  this  would  last  for- 
ever. Oh!  misery!  misery!  I  have  been  dreaming, 
and  now  I  am  awake.  Blanche,"  he  added,  more 
calmly,  but  in  a  more  melancholy  tone,  "the  war  we 
are  engaged  in  is  a  cruel  and  murderous  one;  it  is  pos- 
sible that  we  may  not  meet  again. " 

He  took  Blanche's  hand ;  she  was  sobbing. 

"  Promise  me  that  if  I  fall  far  away  from  you  —  I 
have  always  had  a  presentiment,  Blanche,  that  my  life 
would  be  a  short  one  —  promise  me  that  you  will  think 
of  me  sometimes;  that  my  name  will  sometimes  come 
to  your  lips,  even  if  it  be  only  in  a  dream;  and  I, 
Blanche,  promise  you  that,  if  there  is  time  between  life 
and  death  for  me  to  pronounce  a  name,  a  single  one,  it 
shall  be  yours." 


394  BLANCHE  DE   BEAULIEU. 

Blanche  was  choked  by  her  tears;  but  there  were  in 
her  eyes  a  thousand  promises  more  tender  than  those 
Marceau  demanded.  With  one  hand  she  pressed  Mar- 
ceau's,  who  was  at  her  feet,  and  with  the  other  pointed 
to  the  red  rose,  which  she  wore  in  her  hair. 

"  Forever !  forever !  "  she  faltered. 

And  she  fell  in  a  swoon. 

Marceau 's  cries  summoned  his  mother  and  sisters. 
He  thought  that  Blanche  was  dead;  he  was  writhing  on 
the  floor  at  her  feet.  In  love  everything  is  exaggerated, 
—  hopes  and  fears.     The  soldier  was  only  a  child. 

Blanche  opened  her  eyes,  and  blushed  wh^n  she  saw 
Marceau  at  her  feet  and  his  family  around  him. 

"He  is  going  away,"  she  said;  "perhaps  to  fight 
against  my  father.  Oh !  spare  my  father  if  he  should 
fall  into  your  hands;  remember  that  his  death  would 
kill  me.  What  more  can  you  ask  1  "  she  added,  lower- 
ing her  eyes.  "  I  did  not  think  of  my  father  until  after 
I  thought  of  you. " 

Thereupon,  summoning  all  her  courage,  she  begged 
Marceau  to  go.  He  himself  realized  the  necessity  of 
doing  so,  and  no  longer  resisted  her  entreaties  and  his 
mother's.  The  necessary  orders  were  given,  and,  an 
hour  later,  he  had  said  farewell  to  Blanche  and  his 
family. 

Marceau  left  Nantes  by  the  same  road  he  and  Blanche 
had  ridden  over  together;  he  allowed  his  horse  to  take 
his  own  gait,  for  at  every  step  he  was  reminded  of  some 
passage  in  the  young  Vendean's  narrative.  He  reviewed, 
so  to  speak,  the  story  she  had  told  him;  and  the  danger 
to  which  she  was  exposed,  of  which  he  had  not  thought 
while  he  was  with  her,  seemed  to  him  much  greater  now 
that  he  had  left  her.  Every  word  Delmar  had  spoken 
rang  in  his  ears;  every  moment  he  was  on  the  point  of 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU.  395 

stopping  his  horse  and  returning  to  Nantes;  and  it  re- 
quired all  his  good  sense  to  prevent  his  yielding  to  his 
craving  to  see  her  again. 

If  Marceau  had  been  able  to  think  of  aught  beside 
the  subject  that  filled  his  whole  mind,  he  would  have 
noticed  a  horseman,  in  the  distance, coming  toward  him, 
who,  after  drawing  rein  a  moment  to  make  sure  that  he 
was  not  mistaken,  urged  his  horse  to  a  gallop  to  join 
him ;  and  he  would  have  recognized  General  Dumas  as 
promptly  as  he  himself  was  recognized  by  him. 

The  friends  leaped  from  their  horses  and  threw  them- 
selves into  each  other's  arms. 

At  the  same  instant  a  man,  with  perspiration  dripping 
from  his  hair,  his  face  and  clothes  scratched  and  torn, 
leaped  over  a  hedge,  rolled,  rather  than  ran,  down  the 
bank,  and  fell,  exhausted,  almost  voiceless,  at  the  feet 
of  the  two  friends,  uttering  the  one  word :  — 

"Arrested!" 

It  was  Tinguy. 

"Arrested?  who?  Blanche?"  cried  Marceau. 

The  peasant  made  an  affirmative  gesture;  the  poor 
fellow  could  not  speak.  He  had  made  five  leagues, 
running  across  fields  and  hedges,  through  furze  and 
broom;  he  might  perhaps  have  run  one  league,  two 
leagues  more,  to  overtake  Marceau;  but,  having  over- 
taken him,  he  collapsed. 

Marceau  gazed  at  him  with  open  mouth  and  staring 
eyes. 

"Arrested!  Blanche  arrested!"  he  kept  repeating, 
while  his  friend  put  his  flask  of  wine  to  the  peasant's 
clinched  teeth,  "  Blanche  arrested !  That  was  why 
they  sent  me  away.  Alexandre,"  he  cried,  taking  his 
friend's  hand,  and  forcing  him  to  rise,  —  "  Alexandre,  I 


396  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 

am  going  back  to  Nantes;  you  must  go  with  me,  for  my 
life,  my  future,  my  happiness,  all  are  there." 

His  teeth  chattered  violently;  his  whole  body  was 
shaken  by  a  convulsive  trembling. 

"  Let  the  man  tremble  who  has  dared  to  lay  his  hand 
on  Blanche !  Do  you  know  that  I  love  her  with  all  the 
strength  of  my  soul ;  that  life  is  not  possible  for  me 
without  her,  that  I  must  save  her  or  die?  Oh!  fool, 
madman  that  I  was  to  leave  her!  —  Blanche  arrested  I 
where  has  she  been  taken  1  " 

Tinguy,  to  whom  that  question  was  put,  was  begin- 
ning to  come  to  himself.  The  veins  in  his  forehead 
swelled  as  if  they  were  about  to  burst;  his  eyes  were 
injected  with  blood ;  and  his  chest  was  so  oppressed,  his 
breathing  so  labored,  that  he  could  hardly  reply  when 
the  question  was  put  to  him  a  second  time. 

"  To  the  Bouffays  prison. " 

The  words  were  no  sooner  out  of  his  mouth  than  the 
two  friends  started  back  toward  Kantes  at  a  gallop. 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU.  397 


IV. 


There  was  not  a  moment  to  lose ;  therefore  the  friends 
rode  straight  to  the  house  occupied  by  Carrier  on  Place 
du  Cours.  When  they  arrived,  Marceau  leaped  from 
his  horse,  mechanically  took  his  pistols,  which  were 
in  the  holsters,  concealed  them  beneath  his  coat,  and 
rushed  to  the  apartments  of  the  man  who  held  Blanche's 
destiny  in  his  hands.  His  friend  followed  him  more 
calmly,  although  fully  prepared  to  defend  him  if  he 
needed  his  assistance,  and  to  risk  his  life  as  recklessly 
as  upon  the  battlefield.  But  the  deputy  of  the  Moun- 
tain knew  too  well  how  universally  abhorred  he  was  not 
to  be  suspicious,  and  neither  entreaties  nor  threats  could 
procure  the  two  generals  an  interview. 

Marceau  returned  to  tha  street  more  tranquilly  than 
his  friend  expected.  In  the  last  moment  or  two  he 
seemed  to  have  adopted  a  new  plan,  which  he  matured 
in  haste,  and  there  was  no  further  doubt  as  to  his  pur- 
pose when  he  begged  General  Dumas  to  go  at  once  to 
the  post  house  and  wait  for  him  at  the  Bouffays  gate 
with  a  carriage  and  post  horses. 

Marceau's  name  and  rank  opened  the  prison  doors  to 
him;  he  ordered  the  jailer  to  show  him  to  the  cell  in 
which  Blanche  was  confined.  The  jailer  hesitated  a 
moment.  Marceau  repeated  the  command  in  a  more 
imperative  tone,  and  the  man  obeyed,  motioning  to 
him  to  follow. 

"  She  is  not  alone,"  said  his  guide,  opening  the  low 
arched  door  of  a  dungeon  so  dark  that  it  made  Marceau 


398  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 

shudder;  "  but  she  '11  soon  be  rid  of  her  companion,  for 
he  's  to  be  guillotined  to-day." 

With  those  words  he  closed  the  door  on  Marceau, 
urging  him  to  abridge  as  much  as  possible  an  interview 
which  might  compromise  him. 

Still  dazzled  by  the  sudden  transition  from  light  to 
darkness,  Marceau  put  out  his  arms  like  a  man  walking 
in  his  sleep,  trying  to  pronounce  the  word  "Blanche," 
which  his  mouth  refused  to  form,  and  unable  to  pierce 
with  his  eyes  the  shadows  that  surrounded  him.  He 
heard  a  stifled  cry.  The  girl  threw  herself  into  his 
arms;  she  had  recognized  him  at  once,  for  her  eyes  were 
already  accustomed  to  the  darkness. 

She  threw  herself  into  his  arms,  for  there  was  a 
moment  when  terror  caused  her  to  forget  her  age  and 
sex ;  she  thought  of  nothing  but  the  question  of  life  or 
death.  She  clung  to  him  as  a  shipwrecked  sailor  clings 
to  a  rock,  with  inarticulate  sobs  and  a  convulsive  pres- 
sure of  her  arms. 

"  Ah !  ah !  you  have  not  abandoned  me  !  "  she  cried 
at  last.  "  They  arrested  me ,  dragged  me  here ;  I  saw 
Tinguy  in  the  crowd  that  followed  me;  I  cried:  '  Mar- 
ceau !  Marceau ! '  and  he  disappeared.  Oh  !  I  was  far 
from  hoping  to  see  you  again  —  even  here.  But  you 
have  come  —  you  have  come  —  you  won't  leave  me. 
You  will  take  me  away;  you  won't  leave  me  here!  " 

"  I  would  willingly, at  the  price  of  all  my  blood,  take 
you  away  instantly ;  but  —  " 

"  Oh,  pray  look  about  you;  feel  of  these  dripping 
walls,  this  filthy  straw  !  You  are  a  general,  can  you 
not  —  " 

"This  is  what  I  can  do,  Blanche:  knock  at  yonder 
door,  blow  out  the  brains  of  the  turnkey  who  opens  it, 
take  you  out  into  the  courtyard,  let  you   breathe  the 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU.  399 

fresh  air  and  see  the  sky  once  more,  and  die  in  your 
defence;  but  when  I  am  dead,  Blanche,  they  will  bring 
you  back  to  this  dungeon,  and  there  will  not  be  a  single 
man  left  on  earth  who  can  save  you." 

"  But  can  you  save  me  1  " 

"  Perhaps. " 

"Soon?" 

**  In  two  days ,  Blanche ;  I  ask  you  for  two  days. 
But  you  must  first  answer  a  question  on  which  your 
life  and  mine  depend.  Answer  as  you  would  answer 
God.     Blanche,  do  you  love  me?  " 

"  Is  this  the  time  and  place  when  such  a  question 
should  be  asked,  or  when  one  can  answer  it?  Do  you 
think  that  these  walls  are  used  to  hearing  declarations 
of  love?" 

"  Yes,  this  is  the  proper  time;  for  we  are  between  lifo 
and  the  grave,  between  existence  and  eternity.  Blanche, 
answer  me  quickly.  Every  moment  robs  us  of  a  day, 
every  hour  of  a  year.     Do  you  love  me,  Blanche?  " 

"Oh!  yes,  yes  — " 

The  words  escaped  from  the  young  girl's  heart,  and, 
forgetting  that  no  one  could  see  her  blushes,  she  hid 
her  face  on  Marceau's  arm. 

"  Very  well,  Blanche,  you  must  accept  me  on  the  spot 
as  your  husband." 

The  girl  quivered  from  head  to  foot. 

"  What  can  be  your  purpose  ?  " 

"  My  purpose  is  to  snatch  you  from  the  jaws  of  death ; 
we  will  see  if  they  dare  send  the  wife  of  a  republican 
general  to  the  scaffold." 

Blanche  understood  his  whole  thought;  she  shuddered 
at  the  danger  to  which  he  would  expose  himself  to  save 
her.  Her  love  gathered  new  strength;  but,  summoning 
all  her  courage,  she  said  firmly,  — 


400  BLANCHE  DE   BEAULIEU. 

*  It  is  impossible. " 

**  Impossible  ?  "  echoed  Marceau,  "  impossible  ?  Why, 
this  is  madness !  What  obstacle  can  there  be  between 
us  and  happiness,  since  you  have  just  confessed  that 
you  love  mel  Do  you  think  this  is  all  child's  play? 
Listen  to  me;  listen,  in  God's  name:  this  means  death 
to  you !  Do  you  hear  ?  death  on  the  scaffold,  the  heads- 
man, the  tumbril,  the  knife  !  " 

"Oh!  pity,  pity!  it  is  terrible!  But  think  of  your- 
self. When  I  am  once  your  wife,  if  that  title  does 
not  save  me,  it  destroys  you  with  me!  " 

"  So  that  is  your  reason  for  rejecting  the  only  means 
of  safety  that  is  left  open  to  you!  Ah!  well,  listen  to 
me,  Blanche,  for  I  have  a  confession  to  make  to  you. 
When  I  first  saw  you,  I  loved  you;  my  love  has  become 
a  passion ;  I  live  upon  it  as  a  part  of  my  life.  My  life  is 
yours  ;  my  fate  will  be  the  same  as  yours ;  happiness  or 
the  scaffold,  I  will  share  everything  with  you;  I  will 
not  leave  you  ;  no  human  power  can  part  us;  or,  if  I  do 
leave  you,  I  have  only  to  shout  Vive  le  roif  Those 
words  will  throw  your  dungeon  open  to  me  again,  and 
we  will  never  leave  it  except  together.  Oh !  well ,  let 
it  be  so:  a  night  in  the  same  dungeon,  a  ride  in  the 
same  tumbril,  death  on  the  same  scaffold,  that  will  be 
something," 

"  Oh !  no,  no  !  go!  leave  me,  in  Heaven's  name,  leave 
me!" 

**  You  bid  me  go !  Beware  what  you  say  and  what 
you  mean;  for,  if  I  go  from  here  without  having  you 
for  my  own,  without  your  giving  me  the  right  to  defend 
you,  I  will  go  to  your  father  —  your  father,  whom  you 
have  forgotten,  who  is  weeping  for  you  —  and  I  will 
say  to  him:  '  Old  man,  your  daughter  might  have  been 
saved,  but  she  did  not  choose;  she  preferred  that  your 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU.  401 

last  days  should  be  passed  in  mourning,  and  that  her 
blood  should  be  spattered  on  your  gray  hairs.  Weep, 
old  man,  weep,  — not  because  your  daughter  is  dead, 
but  because  she  did  not  love  you  enough  to  live. '  " 

Marceau  pushed  Blanche  away;  she  fell  on  her 
knees  a  few  steps  from  him,  and  he  walked  back  and 
forth,  with  clinched  teeth,  his  arms  folded  across  his 
breast,  and  the  laughter  of  a  madman,  or  one  of  the 
damned.  He  heard  Blanche's  sobs,  tears  gushed  from 
his  eyes,  his  arms  fell  nervelessly  at  his  sides,  and  he 
grovelled  at  her  feet. 

"  Oh  !  in  pity's  name,  by  all  that  you  hold  most 
sacred  in  this  world,  by  your  mother's  grave,  Blanche, 
Blanche,  consent  to  become  my  wife.  You  must;  it  is 
your  duty." 

"  Yes,  it  is  your  duty,  young  maiden,"  said  a  strange 
voice,  which  made  them  both  start  and  rise  from  the 
floor;  "it  is  your  duty,  for  it  is  the  only  way  of  pre- 
serving a  life  that  is  hardly  beginning;  religion  com- 
mands you  to  do  it,  and  I  am  ready  to  bless  your 
union." 

Marceau  turned  in  amazement,  and  recognized  the 
cure  of  Sainte-Marie-de-E,he,  who  was  present  at  the 
assemblage  he  had  attacked  on  the  night  Blanche  became 
his  prisoner. 

"  O  father !  "  he  cried,  seizing  his  hand,  and  pulling 
him  toward  Blanche,  "  obtain  her  consent  to  live." 

"  Blanche  de  Beaulieu, "  said  the  priest,  in  a  solemn 

tone,  "  in  the  name  of  your  father,  whom  my  years  and 

the  friendship  between  us  entitle  me  to  represent,    I 

adjure  you  to  yield  to  the  entreaties  of  this  young  man, 

for  your  father  himself,  if  he  were  here,  would  do  as  I 

do." 

Blanche  seemed  to  be  torn  by  a  thousand  conflicting 
26 


402  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 

sentiments;  but  at  last  she  threw  herself  into  Marceau's 
arms. 

"  0  my  love,"  she  said,  "  I  have  not  the  strength  to 
resist  you  longer.  I  love  you,  Marceau !  I  love  you, 
and  I  am  your  wife. " 

Their  lips  met;  Marceau's  joy  was  beyond  bounds; 
he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  everything.  The  priest's 
voice  soon  roused  him  from  his  trance. 

"Make  haste,  my  children,"  he  said;  "for  my 
moments  here  on  earth  are  numbered ;  and  if  you  delay 
I  can  only  give  you  my  blessing  from  on  high." 

The  lovers  shuddered.  That  voice  called  them  back 
to  earth  !     Blanche  looked  about  her  with  fearful  eyes. 

"  0  my  love,"  she  said,  "  what  a  moment  to  unite  our 
destinies  !  what  a  temple  for  a  marriage!  Do  you  think 
that  a  union  consecrated  beneath  these  gloomy,  depress- 
ing arches  can  be  a  happy  and  lasting  one  1  " 

Marceau  started;  for  he  himself  was  assailed  by 
superstitious  terror.  He  led  Blanche  toward  a  part  of 
the  dungeon  where  the  light,,  creeping  between  the 
crossed  bars  of  a  narrow  air-hole,  made  the  darkness  less 
dense ;  there  they  both  fell  on  their  knees,  awaiting  the 
priest's  blessing. 

He  put  forth  his  hand,  and  pronounced  the  sacred 
words.  At  the  same  moment  there  was  the  clashing  of 
weapons  and  the  measured  tread  of  soldiers  in  the  cor- 
ridor; Blanche,  in  deadly  terror,  threw  herself  into 
Marceau's  arms. 

"  Can  it  be  that  they  have  come  for  me  already  ?  "  she 
cried.  "  0  my  love,  my  love,  how  horrible  death  would 
be  at  this  moment !  " 

The  young  general  had  jumped  in  front  of  the  door, 
a  pistol  in  either  hand.  The  soldiers  fell  back  in 
amazement. 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU.  403 

"Be  not  alarmed,"  said  the  priest,  coming  forward. 
"  I  am  the  one  for  whom  they  have  come;  I  am  the  one 
who  is  to  die. " 

The  soldiers  surrounded  him. 

"  My  children,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  firm  voice ,  address- 
ing the  newly-made  husband  and  wife,  —  "to  your 
knees,  my  children;  with  one  foot  in  the  grave  I  give 
you  my  last  blessing,  and  a  dying  man's  blessing  is 
sacred. " 

The  soldiers  stood  in  awed  silence;  the  priest  took 
from  his  breast  a  crucifix,  which  he  had  succeeded  in 
concealing  from  all  eyes;  he  stretched  it  out  toward 
them ;  being  prepared  for  death  himself,  he  prayed  for 
them.  There  was  a  moment  of  solemn  silence,  during 
which  everybody  believed  in  God.  , 

"  Forward  !  "  said  the  priest. 

The  soldiers  surrounded  him;  the  door  closed,  and 
the  party  disappeared  like  a  nocturnal  vision. 

Blanche  threw  herself  into  Marceau's  arms. 

"  Oh !  if  you  leave  me ,  and  they  come  for  me  in  that 
way,  if  I  have  not  you  to  help  me  pass  through  that 
door,  oh  !  Marceau  !  think  of  it,  —  the  scaffold  !  I  on 
the  scaff'old,  far  from  you,  weeping  and  calling  you,  and 
having  no  reply!  Oh!  do  not  go  away,  do  not  go  away  ! 
I  will  throw  myself  at  their  feet,  I  will  tell  them  I  am 
not  guilty,  and  if  they  will  leave  me  in  prison  with 
you  all  my  life  I  will  bless  them.  But  if  you  leave 
me  —     Oh !  do  not  leave  me  !  " 

"Blanche,  I  am  sure  of  saving  you;  I  will  answer 
for  your  life.  In  less  than  two  days  I  will  be  here  with 
your  pardon,  and  then  it  will  not  be  a  lifetime  in  a 
dungeon,  but  a  lifetime  of  fresh  air  and  happiness,  of 
liberty  and  love!  " 

The  door  opened,  and  the  jailer  appeared.     Blanche 


404  BLANCHE  DE   BEAULIEU. 

held  Marceau  more  tightly  in  her  arms;  she  would  not 
let  him  go,  and  yet  every  moment  was  precious.  He 
gently  unclasped  her  hands,  whose  grasp  detained  him, 
and  promised  her  that  he  would  return  before  the  close 
of  the  second  day. 

"  Love  me  always,"  he  said,  rushing  from  the  cell. 

"Always  !  "  said  Blanche,  staggering  back  and  point- 
ing to  the  red  rose  he  had  given  her,  which  she  wore  in 
her  hair;  and  the  door  closed  upon  her  like  the  door  of 
hell. 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU.  406 


V. 


Marceau  found  General  Dumas  waiting  in  the  jailer's 
house ;  he  called  for  pen  and  ink  and  paper. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  1  "  his  friend  asked, 
alarmed  hy  his  excitement. 

"  Write  to  Carrier,  ask  him  for  two  days'  respite,  and 
tell  him  that  he  will  answer  to  me  for  Blanche's  life 
with  his  own." 

"  Madman!  "  rejoined  his  friend,  snatching  away  the 
letter  he  had  begun.  "  You  threaten,  and  you  are  in 
his  power;  have  you  not  disobeyed  tlie  order  you 
received  to  rejoin  the  army?  Do  you  think  that,  when 
he  is  already  afraid  of  you,  his  fears  would  pause  even 
to  find  a  plausible  pretext  1  Within  an  hour  you  would 
be  arrested;  and  then,  what  could  you  do,  either  for  her 
or  for  yourself.  Take  my  advice,  and  by  your  silence 
give  him  a  chance  to  forget,  for  nothing  but  his  forget- 
ting can  save  her. " 

Marceau's  head  had  fallen  between  his  hands;  he 
seemed  to  be  reflecting  deeply. 

"You  are  right,"  he  suddenly  cried,  springing  to  his 
feet.     And  he  drew  his  friend  into  the  street. 

A  few  people  were  assembled  about  a  post-chaise, 

"If  it  should  be  foggy  to-night,"  said  a  voice,  "I 
don't  know  what  should  prevent  a  score  of  good  fellows 
from  coming  into  the  town  and  carrying  off  the  prisoners. 
It 's  shameful  how  poorly  Nantes  is  guarded." 

Marceau  started,  turned,  recognized  Tinguy,  exchanged 
a  meaning  glance  with  him, and  leaped  into  the  vehicle. 

"  To  Paris !  "  he  said  to  the  postilion,  giving  him  money. 


406  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 

The  horses  set  off  with  the  swiftness  of  lightning. 
Everywhere  there  was  the  same  dihgence;  everywhere, 
by  the  lavish  use  of  money,  Marceau  obtained  a  promise 
that  horses  should  be  ready  for  him  on  the  following 
day,  and  that  no  obstacle  should  delay  his  return. 

During  the  journey  he  learned  that  General  Dumas 
had  handed  in  his  resignation ,  asking  as  a  favor  to  be 
employed  as  a  private  in  another  army;  he  had,  conse- 
quently, been  placed  at  the  disposal  of  the  Committee 
of  Public  Safety,  and  was  on  his  way  to  Nantes  when 
Marceau  met  him  on  the  Clisson  road. 

At  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  the  carriage  contain- 
ing the  two  generals  entered  Paris. 

Marceau  and  his  friend  parted  on  Place  du  Palais- 
£galite. 

Marceau  walked  down  Rue  Saint-Honor^  toward 
Saint-Roch,  stopped  at  number  366,  and  asked  for 
Citizen  Robespierre. 

"He  is  at  the  The§,tre  de  la  Nation,"  replied  a  girl 
of  sixteen  or  eighteen;  "  but  if  you  will  come  again  in 
two  hours  he  will  have  returned." 

"Robespierre  at  the  Theatre  de  la  Nation!  Aren't 
you  mistaken  ?  " 

"No,  citizen." 

"  Very  well,  I  will  look  for  him  there,  and  if  I  don't 
find  him  I  will  return  and  wait  for  him  here.  This  is 
my  name:  Citizen  General  Marceau." 

The  TheS-tre-Fran^ais  had  separated  into  two  troupes : 
Talma,  accompanied  by  the  patriot  actors,  had  emigrated 
to  the  Odeon.  It  was  to  that  theatre,  therefore,  that 
Marceau  found  his  way,  amazed  to  have  to  seek  the 
austere  member  of  the  Committee  of  Public  Safety  at  a 
place  of  amusement. 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIETJ.  407 

They  were  playing  "The  Death  of  Caesar."  He  entered 
the  balcony ;  a  young  man  offered  him  a  seat  beside  him 
in  the  front  row.  Marceau  accepted  it,  hoping  to  see 
from  there  the  man  he  sought. 

The  play  had  not  begun ;  the  audience  seemed  to  be 
in  a  strange  state  of  effervescence ;  laughter  and  signals 
were  freely  exchanged,  and  started,  as  from  a  sort  of 
headquarters,  from  a  group  seated  in  the  orchestra;  that 
group  dominated  the  theatre,  and  was  itself  dominated 
by  a  single  man :  that  man  Avas  Danton. 

Beside  him,  speaking  when  he  was  silent,  holding 
their  peace  when  he  spoke,  were  Camille-Desmoulins, 
his  fanatical  worshipper,  Philippaux,  Herault  de 
Sechelles,  and  Lacroix,  his  apostles. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  Marceau  had  foimd  himself 
in  the  presence  of  that  Mirabeau  of  the  people.  He 
would  have  recognized  him  by  his  loud  voice,  his 
imperious  gestures,  his  lordly  brow,  even  if  his  nam© 
had  not  been  pronounced  several  times  by  his  friends. 

We  ask  indulgence  while  we  say  a  few  words  as  to 
the  state  of  the  different  factions  into  which  the  Con- 
vention was  divided.  They  are  essential  to  a  proper 
understanding  of  the  scene  which  follows. 

The  Commune  and  Mountain  had  joined  forces  to 
bring  about  the  revolution  of  the  31st  of  May.  The 
Girondins,  after  having  tried  in  vain  to  effect  a  federa- 
tion of  the  provinces,  had  fallen,  almost  undefended,  in 
the  midst  of  those  who  had  chosen  them  and  who  simply 
did  not  dare  to  shelter  them  in  the  days  of  their  pro- 
scription. Before  the  31st  of  May,  the  power  was 
nowhere ;  after  the  31st  of  May  they  felt  the  necessity  of 
joining  forces  in  order  to  make  prompt  action  possible. 
The  Assembly  possessed  the  most  extensive  power:  a 
faction  had  taken  possession  of  the  Assembly;   a  fevr 


408  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 

men  swayed  that  faction;  naturally,  the  power  was  in 
the  hands  of  those  men.  The  Committee  of  Public 
Safety,  up  to  the  31st  of  May,  had  been  made  up  of 
neutral  members  of  the  Convention;  the  time  for  its 
renewal  arrived,  and  the  extreme  Montagnards  made 
places  for  themselves  upon  it.  Barrere  remained  as  a 
representative  of  the  former  committee,  but  Robespierre 
was  chosen  a  member;  Saint-Just,  Collot  d'Herbois, 
and  Billaud-Varennes,  supported  by  him,  put  down 
their  colleagues,  Herault  de  Sechelles  and  Robert 
Lindet;  Saint- Just  undertook  the  duty  of  surveillance, 
Couthon  that  of  softening  down  propositions  that  were 
too  violent  in  tone;  Billaud-Varennes  and  Collot 
d'Herbois  managed  the  proconsulates  of  the  depart- 
ments; Carnot  attended  to  the  department  of  war, 
Cambon  to  the  finances,  Prieur  (de  la  Cote-d'Or)  and 
Prieur  (de  la  Marne)  to  internal  and  administrative 
affairs;  and  Barrere,  who  soon  joined  them,  became  the 
daily  orator  of  the  party.  As  for  Robespierre,  he  had 
no  defined  functions,  but  exercised  a  general  oversight 
of  the  whole,  commanding  that  political  body  as  the 
head  commands  the  material  body  and  makes  every 
member  act  in  obedience  to  its  will. 

In  that  party  the  Revblution  was  incarnate;  it  was 
bent  upon  carrying  out  the  Revolution  with  all  its  con- 
sequences, so  that  the  people  might  some  day  enjoy  all 
its  results. 

That  party  had  to  contend  against  two  others:  one 
wished  to  outdo  it,  the  other  to  hold  it  back.  Those 
two  parties  were :  — 

The  Commune ,  represented  by  Hubert. 

The  Mountain,  represented  by  Danton. 

In  "  P^re  Duchesne  "  Hebert  popularized  obscenity  of 
speech;  insult  followed  the  victims  and  laughter  the  exe- 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU.  409 

cutions.  In  a  short  time  it  made  tremendous  progress. 
The  Bishop  of  Paris  and  his  vicars  abjured  Christianity  ; 
the  Catholic  worship  was  replaced  by  the  worship  oi 
Reason,  the  churches  were  closed;  Anacharsis  Clootz 
became  the  apostle  of  the  new  goddess.  The  Committee 
of  Public  Safety  took  fright  at  the  power  of  this  ultra- 
revolutionary  faction,  which  they  thought  had  fallen 
with  Marat,  and  which  rested  on  immorality  and  athe- 
ism ;  Robespierre  undertook  to  attack  it  single-handed. 
On  December  5,  1793,  he  defied  it  from  the  tribune; 
and  the  Convention,  which  had  perforce  applauded  the 
abjurations  at  the  demand  of  the  Commune,  decreed,  at 
the  demand  of  Robespierre,  who  also  had  a  religion  of 
his  own  to  establish,  that  all  violence  and  all  measures 
contrary  to  liberty  of  worship  were  forbidden. 

Danton,  in  the  name  of  the  moderate  portion  of  the 
Mountain,  demanded  the  overthrow  of  the  revolutionary 
government;  the  "  Vieux  Cordelier,"  edited  by  Camille 
Desmoulins,  was  the  organ  of  the  party.  The  Com- 
mittee of  Public  Safety,  that  is  to  say,  the  dictatorship, 
was  created,  in  its  view,  only  to  repress  within  and  con- 
quer without ;  and  as  the  committee  had  been  repressed 
within  and  beaten  on  the  frontier,  it  —  that  is,  the  party 
led  by  Danton  —  demanded  that  a  power  which  had 
become  useless  should  be  shattered  in  order  that  it 
might  not  subsequently  become  dangerous;  the  Revolu- 
tion had  pulled  down,  the  Dantonists  wished  to  rebuild 
on  ground  that  had  not  been  cleared. 

These  were  the  three  factions  by  which  the  Conven- 
tion  was  torn  in  the  early  days  of  1794,  when  the  action 
of  our  narrative  takes  place.  Robespierre  accused  Hebert 
of  atheism  and  Danton  of  corruption ;  he  was  accused  by 
them  of  ambition,  and  the  word  dictator  began  to  be 
whispered. 


41<y  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 

Such,  then,  was  the  condition  of  affairs  when  Marceau, 
as  we  have  said,  saw  Dan  ton  for  the  first  time,  as  he  was 
using  the  orchestra  for  a  tribune,  and  tossing  words  of 
weighty  import  to  those  who  surrounded  him.  The  phiy 
was  "  The  Death  of  Caesar ;  "  the  word  had  been  passed 
to  the  Dantonists ;  they  were  all  present  at  the  perform- 
ance, and,  at  a  signal  from  their  leader,  they  were  to 
signify  the  application  of  these  lines  to  Robespierre: 

Oui,  que  Cesar  soit  grand,  mais  que  Rome  soit  libra. 
Dieux !  maitresse  de  I'lnde,  esclave  aux  bords  du  Tibre, 
Qu'importe  que  son  nom  comraande  k  I'univers, 
Et  qu'on  I'appelle  reine  alors  qu'elle  est  aux  fers  ! 
Qu'importe  k  ma  patrie,  aux  Romains  que  tu  braves, 
D'apprendre  que  Cesar  a  de  nouveaux  esclaves  ! 
Les  Persans  ne  sont  pas  nos  plus  fiers  ennemis; 
II  en  est  de  plus  grands.     Je  n'ai  pas  d' autre  avis.* 

And  that  is  why  Robespierre,  who  had  been  warned 
by  Saint- Just,  was  at  the  Theatre  de  la  Nation  that 
evening;  for  he  realized  what  a  weapon  in  the  hands  of 
his  enemies  the  charge  they  made  against  him  would 
be,  if  they  .succeeded  in  popularizing  it. 

But  Marceau  looked  in  vain  for  him  in  that  bril- 
liantly lighted  hall,  where  the  line  of  the  boxes  alone 
remained  in  a  sort  of  half-darkness,  because  of  the  pro- 
truding of  the  galleries  above  them;  and  his  eyes, 
fatigued  by  the  vain  search,  returned  constantly  to  the 

1  Ay,  let  Caesar,  if  yon  will,  be  great,  but  let  Rome  be  free. 

Ye  gods !  of  all  the  Indies  mistress,  but  on  Tiber's  banks  a  slave. 

What  boots  it  that  her  name  doth  sway  the  universe, 

And  that  she  's  called  a  queen,  when  she  with  chains  is  laden  ? 

What  boots  it  to  my  country,  to  the  Romans  whom  you  defy, 

To  learn  that  Caesar  hath  new  slaves  ? 

The  Persians  are  not  our  most  arrogant  foes ; 

There  are  greater  than  they.    I  say  no  more. 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU.  411 

group  in  the  orchestra,  whose  noisy  conversation  attracted 
the  attention  of  the  whole  audience. 

"I  saw  our  dictator  to-day,"  said  Danton.  "They 
undertook  to  make  peace  between  us." 

"  Where  did  you  meet?  " 

"At  liis  rooms;  I  had  to  climb  the  Incorruptible 's 
three  flights." 

"  What  did  you  say  to  each  other  1  " 

"  I  said  that  I  was  fully  aware  of  the  Committee's 
hatred  of  me,  but  that  I  did  not  fear  it.  He  answered 
that  I  was  wrong,  that  they  had  no  evil  intentions  with 
respect  to  me,  but  that  we  must  have  an  understanding." 

"An  understanding!  an  understanding!  that  would 
be  very  well  with  people  who  act  in  good  faith." 

"  That  is  just  the  answer  I  made  him;  at  that  he  drew 
in  his  lips  and  wrinkled  his  forehead.  I  continued : 
*  Of  course  the  royalists  must  be  put  down ;  but  we  must 
strike  no  blows  except  such  as  will  do  some  good,  and 
not  confound  the  innocent  with  the  guilty.' — *  Why, 
who  told  you,'  retorted  Robespierre,  sharply,  '  that  any 
innocent  man  has  been  put  to  death  1 ' —  *  What  do 
you  say  to  that?  no  innocent  men  put  to  death!  '  I 
cried,  turning  to  Herault  de  Sechelles,  who  was  with 
me;  and  I  came  away." 

"  Was  Saint-Just  there  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  What  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  He  ran  his  hand  through  his  fine  black  hair,  and 
from  time  to  time  arranged  the  knot  of  his  cravat  like 
Robespierre's." 

Marceau's  neighbor,  whose  head  was  resting  on  his 
hands,  started  and  uttered  the  sort  of  hissing  noise  that 
comes  from  between  the  clinched  teeth  of  a  man  who  is 
holding  himself  back;  Marceau  paid  little  heed  to  him, 


412  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 

and  turned  his  attention  once  more  to  Danton  and  his 
friends. 

"  The  coxcomb!  "  said  Camille  Desmoulins,  referring 
to  Saint-Just;  "he  has  so  high  an  opinion  of  himself 
that  he  carries  liis  liead  respectfully  on  his  shoulders, 
like  the  blessed  sacrament." 

Marceau's  neighbor  removed  his  hands,  and  Marceau 
recognized  the  gentle,  beautiful  face  of  Saint- Just,  palQ 
with  anger. 

He  rose  and  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height. 

"  I  will  make  you  carry  yours  like  a  Saint-Denis, 
Desmoulins!  "  he  exclaimed. 

Thereiipon  he  turned  and  left  the  balcony,  the  people 
standing  aside  to  let  him  pass. 

"Well,  well!  who  would  have  supposed  he  was  so 
near?"  laughed  Danton.  "Faith,  the  package  reached 
its  address." 

"By  the  way,  Danton,"  said  Philippaux,  "have  you 
seen  Laya's  pamphlet  against  you?  " 

"  What  say  you  1  Lay  a  writes  pamphlets?  Let  him 
rewrite  the  '  Friend  of  the  Laws. '  I  should  like  right 
well  to  read  it,  —  the  pamphlet,  I  mean." 

"Here  it  is." 

Philippaux  handed  him  a  pamphlet. 

"  And  he  signed  it , pardieu  /  Why ,  he  does  n't  know, 
it  seems,  that  if  he  doesn't  hide  in  my  cellar  they  '11 
cut  off  his  head." 

"Hush!  hush!  the  curtain  is  rising." 

The  word  hush  1  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth  through 
the  hall ;  but  a  young  man  who  was  not  in  the  plot  con- 
tinued to  carry  on  a  private  conversation,  although  the 
actors  were  on  tlie  stage.  Danton  put  out  his  hand, 
touched  him  with  his  finger,  and  said,  with  courtesy, 
in  which  there  was  a  slight  admixture  of  irony :  — 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU.  413 

**  Citizen  Arnault,  let  me  listen  as  if  they  were  play- 
ing 'Marius  at  Minturnse.'  " 

The  young  author  knew  too  much  not  to  respect  a 
request  conveyed  in  those  terms;  he  held  his  peace,  and 
the  most  absolute  silence  made  it  possible  for  every  one 
to  listen  to  one  of  the  worst  plays  that  ever  was  put 
upon  the  stage ,  —  "  The  Death  of  Caesar. " 

But  notwithstanding  that  silence,  it  was  evident  that 
no  participant  in  the  little  conspiracy  we  have  described 
had  forgotten  the  purpose  for  which  he  had  come. 
Glances  were  exchanged,  signals  became  more  frequent 
as  the  actors  approached  the  passage  which  was  to  call 
forth  the  explosion. 

"  It 's  in  Scene  III.,"  Danton  whispered  to  Camille. 

And  he  was  repeating  the  lines  with  the  actors,  as  if 
to  hasten  their  delivery,  when  this  passage  occurred, 
immediately  preceding  that  for  which  they  were 
waiting:  — 

Cesar,  nous  att«ndions  de  ta  cl^mence  auguste 
Un  don  plus  precieux,  une  faveur  plus  juste, 
Au-dessus  des  Etats  donnes  par  ta  bonte. 

C^SAR. 

Qu'oses-tu  demander,  Cimber? 

CiMBER. 

La  liberty  I » 
Three  salvoes  of  applause  greeted  the  words. 

*  Caesar,  we  look  to  thy  great  clemency 
For  a  more  precious  gift,  a  juster  favor, 
Above  the  States  bestowed  by  thy  kind  heart. 

C^SAR. 

What  dar'st  thou  ask,  O  Cimber ! 

CiMBEB. 

Liberty  I 


414  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 

"  All  goes  well,"  said  Danton. 
He  half  rose  from  his  seat. 
Talma  began :  — 

"  Oui,  que  Cesar  soit  grand,  mais  que  Rome  soit  libre  —  " 

Danton  stood  erect,  easting  about  him  the  glance  that 
a  general  casts  over  his  army,  assuring  himself  that 
every  man  is  at  his  post,  when  suddenly  his  eyes  rested 
on  a  certain  point  in  the  hall.  The  front  of  a  box  was 
raised;  Robespierre  protruded  his  sharp-featured,  livid 
face.  The  eyes  of  the  two  enemies  met,  and  could  not 
look  away  from  each  other;  there  was  in  Robespierre's 
eyes  all  the  irony  of  triumph,  all  the  insolence  of 
security.  For  the  first  time  Danton  felt  a  cold  perspi- 
ration start  out  all  over  his  body.  He  forgot  the  signal 
he  was  to  give ;  the  lines  passed  without  applause  or 
murmurs;  he  fell  back  beaten;  the  front  of  the  box 
was  raised,  and  all  was  said.  The  guillotineurs  carried 
the  day  over  the  Septembriseurs :  93  imposed  a  spell 
upon  92. 

Marceau,  whose  mind  was  engrossed  by  something 
very  different  from  the  tragedy,  was  perhaps  the  only 
one  who  witnessed,  without  understanding  it,  the  scene 
we  have  described,  which  lasted  only  a  few  seconds.  He 
had  time,  however,  to  recognize  Robespierre;  he  rushed 
from  the  balcony,  and  arrived  in  the  corridor  in  time  to 
meet  him. 

He  was  as  calm  and  cool  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
Marceau  accosted  him,  and  mentioned  his  name.  Robes- 
pierre offered  him  his  hand;  Marceau,  yielding  to  his 
first  impulse,  withheld  his  own.  A  bitter  smile  passed 
over  Robespierre's  lips. 

"  What  do  you  want  of  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  An  interview  of  a  few  moments. " 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU.  41^ 

"  Here,  or  at  my  house  1 " 

"  At  your  house. " 

"  Come,  then." 

And  the  two  men,  agitated  by  such  widely  different 
emotions,  walked  away,  side  by  side:  Robespierre,  calm 
and  indifferent;  Marceau,  excited  and  curious. 

So  this  was  the  man  who  held  Blanche's  destiny  in 
his  hands;  the  man  of  whom  he  had  heard  so  much, 
whose  incorruptibility  alone  was  evident,  but  whose 
popularity  could  not  but  seem  a  problem.  In  truth, 
he  had  made  use  of  none  of  the  methods  employed  by 
his  predecessors  to  gain  popularity.  He  had  neither 
the  enthralling  eloquence  of  Mirabeau,  nor  the  pater- 
nal firmness  of  Bailly,  nor  the  sublime  impetuosity  of 
Danton,  nor  the  obscene  arts  of  Hebert;  if  he  worked 
for  the  people,  he  did  it  secretly,  and  without  render- 
ing an  account  of  his  work  to  the  people.  Amid  the 
general  levelling  of  language  and  costume,  he  had  re- 
tained his  polished  speech  and  his  fashionable  dress ;  * 
in  fact,  he  seemed  to  take  as  much  pains  to  hold  him- 
self above  the  common  herd  as  others  took  to  mingle 
with  it;  and  one  would  readily  understand,  at  first 
sight,  that  that  singular  being  must  be  either  an  idol  or 
a  victim  of  the  multitude :  he  was  both. 

They  reached  the  house.  A  narrow  staircase  led  them 
to  a  room  on  the  third  floor;  Robespierre  opened  the 
door.     A  bust  of  Rousseau,  a  table  on  which  the  "  Con- 

*  Robespierre's  usual  attire  is  so  well  known  that  it  has  become 
almost  proverbial.  On  the  20th  Prairial,  the  day  of  the  Feast  of 
the  Supreme  Being,  whose  pontiff  he  was,  he  was  dressed  in  a  blue 
coat,  a  waistcoat  of  embroidered  muslin  over  pink ;  black  satin 
breeches,  white  silk  stockings,  and  shoes  with  buckles  completed 
the  costume.  He  wore  the  same  coat  when  he  was  carried  to  the 
scaffold. 


416  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 

trat  Social  "  and  "  Emile  "  lay  open,  a  commode  and  a 
few  chairs  were  the  only  furniture  of  the  room.  But 
the  greatest  neatness  prevailed  everywhere. 

Robespierre  saw  the  effect  produced  on  Marceau  by 
the  sight. 

"This  is  Caesar's  palace,"  he  said,  with  a  smile; 
"what  have  you  to  ask  the  dictator?" 

"  The  pardon  of  my  wife,  condemned  to  death  by 
Carrier. " 

"Your  wife,  condemned  by  Carrier!  the  wife  of 
Marceau,  the  republican  of  the  days  of  antiquity! 
the  Spartan  soldier !  What  is  Carrier  doing  at  Nantes, 
pray?" 

"  Atrocious  things." 

Marceau  thereupon  drew  an  outline  of  the  picture 
we  have  placed  before  the  reader's  eyes.  Robespierre, 
during  his  recital,  twisted  about  on  his  chair  without 
interrupting ;  at  last  Marceau  came  to  an  end. 

"  So  that  is  how  I  am  always  to  be  understood,"  said 
Robespierre,  in  a  hoarse  voice, —  for  his  emotion  was  so 
great  as  to  eifect  that  change  in  his  tone,  —  "  wherever 
my  eyes  are  not  present  to  see  and  my  hand  to  check 
useless  carnage!  There  is  enough  blood  that  it  is  abso- 
lutely necessary  to  shed,  and  we  are  not  at  the  end  of 
it  yet." 

"  But  about  my  wife's  pardon,  Robespierre  ?  ** 

Robespierre  took  a  sheet  of  white  paper. 

"  Her  maiden  name  ?  " 

"Why?" 

**  It  is  necessary  for  me  to  establish  her  identity.** 

"  Blanche  de  Beaulieu." 

Robespierre  dropped  the  pen  he  held. 

**  The  daughter  of  the  Marquis  de  Beaulieu,  the  leader 
of  the  brigands  1  " 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU.  417 

"Blanche  de  Beaulieu,  the  Marquis  de  Beaulieu's 
daughter." 

"  How  does  it  happen  that  she  is  your  wife  ?  " 

Marceau  told  him  the  whole  story. 

"  Young  fool !  young  madman !  "  he  exclaimed ;  "  do 
you  know  —  ?  " 

Marceau  interrupted  him. 

"I  did  not  come  to  ask  for  insults  or  advice;  I  ask 
you  for  her  pardon.     Will  you  give  it  me  1  " 

"  Marceau,  will  family  ties,  the  influence  of  love,  ever 
induce  you  to  betray  the  Republic  1  " 

«  Never." 

"  Suppose  you  should  find  yourself  face  to  face  with 
the  Marquis  de  Beaulieu ,  sword  in  hand  1  " 

"  I  should  fight  him  as  I  have  already  done. " 

"  And  suppose  he  should  fall  into  your  hands  1  " 

Marceau  reflected  a  moment. 

"  I  would  send  him  to  you,  and  you  yourself  should 
be  his  judge." 

"  Do  you  swear  to  that  ?  " 

"  On  my  honor. " 

Robespierre  took  up  the  pen  once  more. 

"  Marceau,"  he  said,  "  you  have  had  the  good  fortune 
to  keep  yourself  pure  in  everybody's  sight;  I  have 
known  of  you  for  a  long  time ;  I  have  long  desired  to 
see  you." 

Noticing  Marceau's  impatience,  he  wrote  the  first 
three  letters  of  his  name,  then  stopped. 

"  Listen:  I  ask  you  to  give  me  five  minutes  now,"  he 
said,  gazing  earnestly  at  Marceau.  "  I  give  you  a  whole 
life  in  return  for  five  minutes;  they  will  be  well  paid 
for." 

Marceau  made  a  motion  to  signify  that  he  would 
listen.     Robespierre  continued:  — 

27 


418  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 

"Some  one  has  slandered  ine  to  you,  Marceau;  and 
yet  you  are  one  of  the  few  men  by  whom  I  wish  to  be 
really  known;  for  what  care  I  for  the  judgment  of  men 
whom  I  do  not  esteem  1  Listen,  then:  three  assemblies 
have  in  turn  sought  to  guide  the  destiny  of  France,  have 
been  each  represented  by  one  man,  and  have  accom- 
plished the  mission  with  which  the  age  intrusted  them: 
the  Constituent,  represented  by  Mirabeau,  shook  the 
foundations  of  the  throne;  the  Legislative,  incarnate  in 
Danton,  overthrew  it.  The  work  of  the  Convention  is 
immense,  for  it  is  called  upon  to  finish  the  work  of  tear- 
ing down  and  to  begin  that  of  rebuilding.  I  have  in 
my  mind  a  lofty  aspiration,  —  to  become  the  type  of  this 
period,  as  Mirabeau  and  Danton,  respectively,  were  the 
types  of  theirs.  In  the  history  of  the  French  people 
there  will  be  three  men,  represented  by  the  figures  91, 
92,  93.  If  the  Supreme  Being  gives  me  time  to  finish 
my  work,  my  name  will  be  above  all  names;  I  shall 
have  done  more  than  Lycurgus  among  the  Greeks,  than 
Kuma  at  Rome,  than  Washington  in  America;  for  each 
of  them  had  only  a  people  just  born  to  pacify,  while  I 
have  an  ancient,  outworn  society  to  regenerate.  If  I 
fall  —  spare  me  from  uttering  a  blasphemy  against  you 
in  my  last  hour,  0  my  God!  —  if  I  fall  before  the 
allotted  time,  my  name,  which  will  have  accomplished 
only  the  half  of  what  it  had  to  do,  will  retain  the  stain 
of  blood  that  the  other  part  would  have  wiped  out ;  the 
Revolution  will  fall  with  it,  and  both  will  be  calum- 
niated. —  That  is  what  I  had  to  say  to  you,  Marceau; 
for  I  wish  that  certain  men  should,  in  any  event,  keep 
my  name  living  and  pure  in  their  hearts,  like  the  flame 
of  the  lamp  in  the  tabernacle,  and  you  are  one  of  those 
men." 

He  finished  writing  his  name. 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU.  419 

"  And  now,  here  is  your  wife's  pardon.  You  can  go 
without  even  giving  me  your  hand." 

Marceau  took  his  hand  and  wrung  it;  he  tried  to 
speak,  but  there  were  so  many  tears  in  his  voice  that 
he  could  not  articulate  a  word,  and  Eobespierre  spoke 
first. 

"  Come,  you  must  go;  there  is  not  a  moment  to  lose. 
Au  revoir  /  " 

Marceau  rushed  downstairs;  General  Dumas  was 
coming  up  as  he  went  down. 

"I  have  her  pardon!"  he  cried,  throwing  himself 
into  his  arms;  "  I  have  her  pardon.  Blanche  is 
saved!" 

"Congratulate  me  too,"  his  friend  replied.  "I  have 
just  been  appointed  commander-in-chief  of  the  army  of 
the  Alps,  and  I  have  come  to  thank  Robespierre." 

They  embraced.  Marceau  rushed  into  the  street, 
hurried  to  Place  du  Palais-Egalite,  where  his  carriage 
awaited  him,  ready  to  depart  with  the  same  speed  with 
which  it  had  brought  him  thither. 

What  a  burden  was  lifted  from  his  heart!  what  hap- 
piness awaited  him!  what  joy  after  so  much  sorrow! 
His  imagination  plunged  into  the  future ;  he  anticipated 
the  moment  when,  from  the  threshold  of  the  dungeon, 
he  should  cry  to  his  wife:  "Blanche!  you  are  free 
through  my  efforts;  come,  Blanche,  and  let  your  love 
and  your  kisses  pay  the  debt  of  your  life." 

From  time  to  time,  however,  a  vague  feeling  of  un- 
easiness passed  through  his  mind,  a  sudden  chill  struck 
his  heart.  At  such  times  he  urged  on  the  postilions, 
promised  them  money,  gave  it  them  lavishly  and  prom- 
ised more;  ^he  wheels  flew  along  the  pavement;  the 
horses  devoured  the  road,  and  yet  it  seemed  to  him  that 
they  were  hardly  moving!     Everywhere  the  relays  were 


420  BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU. 

ready,  there  was  no  delay;  everything  seemed  to  par- 
take of  the  excitement  by  which  he  was  possessed.  In 
a  few  hours  he  had  left  Versailles,  Chartres,  Le  Mans, 
and  La  Fleche  behind  him;  he  saw  Angers  in  the  dis- 
tance. Suddenly  he  felt  a  terrible,  appalling  shock:  the 
carriage  was  overturned  and  broken.  He  rose,  bruised 
and  bleeding,  cut  the  traces  of  one  of  the  horses  with 
his  sword,  leaped  quickly  upon  him,  galloped  to  the 
first  posting  station,  hired  a  race-horse,  and  continued 
his  journey  even  more  swiftly  than  before. 

At  last  he  has  passed  Angers,  espies  Ingrande,  rides 
through  Varades  and  Ancenis.  His  horse  is  dripping 
with  foam  and  blood;  he  passes  Saint-Donatien,  and 
Nantes  is  in  sight,  —  N"antes!  which  contains  his  soul, 
his  life,  his  future!  A  few  moments  more  and  he  will 
be  in  the  city.  He  reaches  the  gate;  his  horse  falls 
exhausted  in  front  of  the  Bouflfays  prison;  he  has 
arrived,  so  what  matters  it! 

"Blanche!  Blanche!" 

"Two  tumbrils  just  left  the  prison  yard,"  said  the 
turnkey;  "she  was  on  the  first." 

"Malediction!" 

And  Marceau  darts  away  on  foot,  amid  the  people 
who  are  hurrying  in  vast  throngs  toward  the  public 
square.  He  overtakes  the  last  of  the  two  tumbrils;  one 
of  the  condemned  men  recognizes  him. 

"  Save  her,  general.  I  could  n't  do  it,  and  I  was 
taken.      Vive  le  roi  and  the  good  cause!  " 

It  was  Tinguy. 

"Yes,  yes!" 

Marceau  opens  a  path  for  himself;  the  crowd  jostles 
and  crushes  him,  but  carries  him  on;  he  arrives  on  the 
square  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd;  he  is  facing  the 
scaffold,  he  waves  his  paper,  shouting:  — 


BLANCHE   DE   BEAULIEU,  421 

"  Pardon !  pardon !  " 

At  that  moment  the  executioner,  holding  up  a  young 
girl's  head  by  its  long,  fair  hair,  presented  the  hideous 
spectacle  to  the  people ;  the  horrified  crowd  turned  away, 
for  they  fancied  that  it  was  vomiting  torrents  of  blood! 
—  Suddenly ,  from  the  midst  of  that  silent  multitude ,  a 
frenzied  cry  arose ,  in  which  all  the  human  forces  seemed 
to  be  concentrated.  Marceau  had  recognized,  between 
the  teeth  of  that  head,  the  red  rose  he  had  given  the 
young  Vendean. 


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HANDY    LIBRARY    SETS 


THE    ROMANCES    OF    ALEXANDRE    DVMAS  —  Continued 

ARRANGEMENT   OF   VOLUMES 
Romances    of    the    Reign    of 


Henry  II. 
The  Two  Dianas,  2  vols. 
The  Duke's  Page,  2  vols. 
The  Horoscope,  and  The  Brigand, 

1vol. 
B  vols.    12ino.    In  box,  $5.00 

The  Valois  Romances 

Marguerite  de  Valois,  1  vol. 
The  Forty-Five,  1  vol. 
La  Dame  de  Monsoreau,  1  vol. 
8  vols.    12mo.    In  box,  $3.00 

The  D'Artagnan  Romances 

The  Three  Musketeers,  2  vols. 

Twenty  Years  After,  2  vols. 

Vicomte  de  Bragelonne,  4  vols. 
(Including  "Bragelonne," 
"  Louise  de  Valliere,"  and 
"The  Iron  Mask.") 

8  vols.    12mo,    In  box,  $8.00 

Romances  of  the  Regency  and 

Louis  XV. 
The    Chevalier    d'Harmental, 

1vol. 
The  Regent's  Daughter,  1  vol. 
Olympe  de  Cleves,  2  vols. 
4  vols.     12mo.    In  box,  S4.00 


The    Marie    Antoinette    Ro- 
mances 

Memoirs  of  a  Physician,  3  vols. 
The  Queen's  Necklace,  2  vols. 
Ange  Pitou,  2  vols. 
Comtesse  de  Chamy,  3  vols. 
Chevalier  de  Maison-Rouge, 

IvoL 
Chauvelin's    Will,    The    Velvet 

Necklace,   and    Blanche  de 

Beaulieu,  1  vol. 
13  vols.    13ino.    In  box,  S13-00 

The  Napoleon  Romances 

The  Companions  of  Jehu,  2  vols. 
The  Whites  and  the  Blues,  2  vols. 
The  She- Wolves  of  Machecoui, 
2  vols. 

6  vols.     12mo.    In  box,  §6.00 

Historical  Romances 

Agenor  de  Mauleon,  2  vols. 

Ascanio,  1  voL 

The  War  of  Women,  1  vol. 

Sylvandire,  1  vol. 

The  Black  Tulip,  and  Tales  of 

the  Caucasus,  1  vol. 
Black,  the  Story  of  a  Dog,  1  voL 

7  vols.    13mo.    In  box,  $7.00 

The  Count  of  Monte  Cristo 
3  vols.     13mo.    In  box,  83.00 


THE   NOVELS   OF  JANE   AUSTEN 
TLLUSTRATED   with    12   photogravure   plates    from 

drawings  by  Edmund  H.  Garrett.  6  vols.  12mo. 
Decorated  cloth,  gilt  top,  in  box,  $6.00.  Half  crushed 
morocco,  gilt  top,  $16.50. 


Sense  and  Sensibility,  1  vol. 
Pride  and  Prejudice,  1  vol. 
North  anger  Abbey,  and  Persua- 
sion, 1  vol. 


Mansfield  Park,  1  vol. 
Emma,  1  vol. 

Lady  Susan,  The  Watson  Let- 
ters, etc.,  1  vol. 


OF    STANDARD    NOVELISTS 

THE    NOVELS,   ROMANCES,   AND 
MEMOIRS  OF  ALPHONSE  DAUDET 

TN  new  and  complete  translations  by  Katharine  Prescott 
AVormeley,  Jane  Minot  Sedgwick,  Charles  de  Kay, 
George  Burnham  Ives,  Marian  Mclntyre,  and  Olive 
Edwards  Palmer,  With  16  photogravure  plates  and  32 
full-page  pictures  from  original  drawings  by  noted  French 
artists,  including  Paul  Avril,  Marchetti,  Adrien  Moreau, 
Gustave  Bourgain,  Laurent  Desrousseaux,  L.  Rossi,  G. 
Roux,  P.  G.  Jeanniot,  and  L,  Kowalsy.  16  vols.  12mo. 
Decorated  cloth,  gilt  top,  in  box,  816.00.  Half  crushed 
morocco,  gilt  top,  $44.00. 

The  Nabob,  2  vols.  Sappho,  Between  the  Flies  ajid 
Fromont  and  Risler,  and  Robert  the  Footlights,  and  Arlatan's 

Helmont,  1  voL  Treasure,  1  vol. 

Numa  Ronmestan,  and  Rose  and  Kings  in  Exile,  1  vol. 

Ninette,  1  vol.  Monday  Tales,  Letters  from  My 
Little-What's-His-Name,  and  Mill,   Letters    to    an   Absent 

Scenes  and  Fancies,  1  vol.  One,  1  vol. 

The  Little  Parish  Church,  and  Memories  of  a  Man  of  Letters, 

The  Evangelist,  1  vol.  Notes   on  Life,  Thirty  Years 

Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  Tartarin  in  Paris,  and  Ultima,  1  vol. 

on  the  Alps,   and  Artists'  The  Immortal,  and  The  Struggle 

Wives,  1  vol.  for  Life,  1  vol. 

Port  Tarascon,  and   La  Fedor,  The  Support  of  the  Family,  IvoL 

1  vol.  Jack,  2  vols. 


THE    ROMANCES    OF   VICTOR    HUGO 

"VITITH  28  portraits  and  plates.     14  vols.    12mo.   Dec- 
orated  cloth,  in  box,  $14.00.     Half  crushed  mo- 
rocco, gilt  top,  $38.50. 

Les  Miserables,  5  vols.  The  Man  who  Laughs,  2  vols. 

Toilers  of  the  Sea,  2  vols.  Hans  of  Iceland,  1  vol. 

Ninety-Three,  1  vol.  Bug-Jargal,  Claude  Gueux,  Last 

Notre  Dame,  2  vols.  Day  of  a  Condemned,  etc.  1  voL 


HANDY    LIBRARY    SETS 


THE    NOVELS   AND   ROMANCES    OF 
EDWARD   BULWER  LYTTON 

(I.ORD   I.YTTON) 

"y^TH  40  plates,  etched  by  W.  H.  W.  Bicknell,  from 
drawings  by  Edmund  H.  Garrett.     30  vols.    12mo. 
Decorated  cloth,  gilt  top,  $30.00.     Half  crushed  morocco, 
gilt  top,  S82.50. 

Romances 

Eugene  Aram,  1  vol. 

Pilgrims  of  the    Rhine,   Leila, 

and  Calderon,  etc.,  1  vol. 
Zanoni,  and  Zicci,  1  vol. 
A  Strange    Story,    and    The  , 

Haunted    and   the  Haunters, 

1vol. 

Historical  Romances 

Devereux,  1  vol. 

Last  Days  of  Pompeii,  1  voL 

Rienzi,  1  vol. 

Last  of  the  Barons,  2  vols. 

Harold,  1  vol. 


The  Caxton  Novels 

The  Caxtons,  2  vols. 

My  Novel,  3  vols. 

What  will  He  do  with  It  ?  2  vols. 

Novels  of  life  and  Manners 

Pelham,  and  Falkland,  2  vols. 

The  Disowned,  1  vol. 

Paul  Clifford,  1  vol. 

Godolphin,  1  vol. 

Ernest  Maltravers,  1  vol. 

Alice,  1  vol. 

Night  and  Morning,  1  vol. 

Lucretia,  1  vol. 

Kenelm  Chillingly,  etc.,  2  vols. 

The  Parisians,  2  vols. 


THE  NOVELS  AND  POEMS  OF 
GEORGE  ELIOT 

"Y^jTITH  10  photogravure  plates  and  10  full-page  pictures 

in  half-tone.    10  vols.    12mo.    Decorated  cloth,  gilt 

top,  in  box,  SIO.OO.   Half  crushed  morocco,  gilt  top,  $27.50. 

Romola,  1  vol. 
Adam  Bede,  1  vol. 
The  Mill  on  the  Floss,  1  vol, 
Felix  Holt,  and    Theophrastus 
Such,  1  vol. 


Scenes    of  Clerical    Life,    Silas 

Mamer,  etc.,  1  vol. 
Middlemarch,  2  vols. 
Daniel  Deronda,  2  vols. 
Poems  and  Essays,  1  vol. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &-  COMPANY,  Publishers 

254  WASHINGTON  STREET  •  BOSTON,  MASSACHUSETTS 


>^  2  2  7 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 

STACK  COLLECTION 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


FACOCT25I975; 


APR  7  1987 

RFTD  MAR  2719871 


30m-8,'65  (F6447s4)  9482 


3  1205  00792  7674 


# 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  793  082     9 


